Majorly Concussed
by wewillwalk
Summary: Brittany is the star of the McKinley High soccer team. Santana is cynical student athletic trainer. What will happen when Brittany sustains a head injury during a match and their paths collide?
1. Chapter 1

**Hi. This story is going to make a comeback in the near future. **_  
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><p><em>Tap tap. Tap tap tap.<em>

Your fingers drum a little beat on the plastic steering wheel. You let out a loud_ huff_ of frustration. It's Thursday evening. As much as you really do love being involved in the program, there's a frozen pizza waiting for you and a nice comfy couch to sit on at home. Instead, you're stuck in the green golf cart with the plastic siding.

It's supposed to be warm, with doors and everything, but some moron flipped it during football season and nobody has repaired the rip. Sure, that _nobody_ probably should have been you, but you like to delegate boring jobs to less important people. Like freshmen. The air outside is freezing, what with this being March in Ohio, and you shiver, zipping up your red and white jacket as far as it will go. It's six-thirty, there's a half-hour left of this game, and then you get to drive the cart back to the school and help Will and Emma clean up.

After that, your plans span as far as heating the pizza and crashing down onto the couch. You remind yourself again; _I love this program, this is helping me go to college, I love what I'm doing_. Then, you glance up to the soccer game that's being played on the field in front of you.

As much as you would usually enjoy seeing twenty two fit girls running around in the mud, there's a half hour left in the game, and no injuries have occurred. It's almost as if this is a sign, it's telling you "_Santana, someone's gonna get hurt, and you are going to have to wait an eternity to get your frozen pizza and Grey's Anatomy on_."

And just then, as if the heaven have opened and dropped a giant pile of shit on your face, you hear someone yelling. "Trainer! Trainer! We need your help over here, white number ten!"

Your ears hone in on the voice, it's the ref, he's signaling in the direction of the golf cart you're sitting in. You shake yourself away from your cynical thoughts and jump into action, grabbing your kit from the seat next to you and pushing open the stupid ripped door of this stupid green golf cart. Running across the turf, you glance down at the blonde girl lying on the ground in front of you. She's near the goal post, holding her head in her hands.

You almost choke on the sharp intake of breath you just sucked in. Head injuries are the worst, and from what you can see, she's got one. It's the blood trickling between her fingers you notice first, and you crouch down next to her, trying to figure out the general source of it.

"Everyone, please back off, I've gotta help her and I can't do my job with ten people panting down my neck." Your tone is all business. You'd usually try to crack a sarcastic joke in a stressful situation, but this is a head injury, and there's blood. And it's Brittany S. Pierce.

Of course you know her name, and you're positive she doesn't know yours. She's the perfect, tall, blonde girl who's been in your studyhall for the past two years. She's popular, captain of the Cheerios during the football and basketball seasons, and she's drop-dead gorgeous. You ignore the fact that you've fantasized about a situation similar to this many times. Brittany strains her quad during cheer practice, and you're on duty, ready to give the flustered girl a thigh massage. But this is different.

There are no fleeting looks, no moans of relief as the muscle tension is loosened. It's just you kneeling next to Brittany, her head bleeding and small whimpers escaping her lips.

"Brittany, I need you to take your hands off of your face and I need you to lie as still as possible." Sure, it's a head injury, but you can never rule out spine or neck issues at just a glance.

She lets out a small whimper, though it is slightly louder than the previous noises, and slowly moves her hands down from her head, settling them at her sides. You can see the wound now, it's just at her hairline, and then blood is trickling down her face. She must have gotten shoved into the goal post while going up for a header or something. _It's probably not spinal if it's her forehead, probably concussed though_, you think but you still look up to the referee and the coach standing a few feet away. They looked worried.

"I need you to go to the cart and grab the spine board," you say, trying to remain as calm as possible. It's the first rule they taught you when you signed up for athletic training_. If you're calm, then everyone is calm_. You had scoffed at this at the time, sure that you'd only be dealing with minor cuts and bruises, but its two and a half years later, and you have more responsibility now.

You pat Brittany's shoulder, trying to calm her down a little. She panicked when she heard you say "spine board", but she seems pretty tough so you keep your mouth shut. You focus on laying her out flat on the turf, her body stick-straight.

The coach and ref return a few minutes later carrying the bright orange board. You look down at the blonde, her blue eyes confused as she looks at you. She seems to be having trouble understanding where she is, probably blacked out for a few seconds. You'd ask her but the main focus of the moment is to make sure her neck and spine get supported before she does any talking.

The assistant coaches are standing a few yards away, and you gesture to them, beckoning them over. It's you and blondie on the ground and four men standing near the board looking down at you, waiting for instructions. Normally, you'd be nervous. The assistant coaches are two of your P.E. teachers, and they have the power to make anyone run laps for all eternity, but the adrenaline of the moment is helping you focus.

"Alright, do you guys know how to transfer someone to one of these?" You know it isn't a stupid question, these guys all have mandatory training in assisting sports medicine practitioners. You're relieved when they all nod. "All right then, on my count."

"I've got her head", you say, walking around Brittany to cup the back of her head in your palms, hands making a "W" shape, fingers moving down to support the back of her neck as your thumbs brush the backs of her ears. The four men take up their positions. "Three, two...one", you all lift her at the same time, the guys standing two on each side of Brittany, helping you lift her gingerly and settling her down onto the spine board.

You tell her everything is going to be all right, tightening the straps around her and adjusting the red foam neck brace that locks her head in place. You and the coaches grab the handles of the board and lift, carrying her to the flatbed of the modified golf cart. You attempt to reassure her one more time before strapping the board securely in the flatbed and sliding into the driver's seat. You grab the walkie-talkie that has been clipped to the right pocket of your khakis the whole time.

"Will, I've got a girl down at soccer, looks like a head injury, there's blood, she may have blacked out. We've got her on the board and I'm driving in now, ETA on minute, get ready." You swallow nervously, hoping he'll respond. For all you know, her could be blasting Journey as usual and never hear your voice crackle over the sound of desperate lyrics and rhythm guitar.

Your fears are lessened as you hear a loud beep and then Will's voice come out of the little black box in your hand.

"Good work Lopez, I'll get set up in here, radio when you're at the door. Over." You sigh in relief and throw the radio down on the seat next to you, it lands loudly on top of your kit but you ignore the noise, focusing instead on your navigation. You silently curse the school for being too cheap to repave the parking lot as you drive in from the stadium across the street. You hang a left, less sharp than usual (you have a delicate passenger) and drive up to the door near the Trainer's.

Will meets you at the door, and the two of you carefully lift the groaning blonde out of the flatbed and into the training room, laying her carefully down on a table in the middle of the room.

"Alright, Santana, good work with the spine board, you got plenty of practice during football season. Could you run into the office and get the IMPACT test started on the computer, and then I'm going to need basic woundcare supplies."

You nod, glad to be able to get away from the situation. Head injuries always freak you out because Will and Emma have taught you to take them extremely seriously. It doesn't help that it's Brittany, the girl you've been secretly crushing on for two years. She looks panicked and helpless now, and you've never seen her like this. In this moment, you realize how little you actually know about her, it's unsettling.

Ten minutes later, a much calmer Brittany is out of the spine board and sitting up on the table. Will checked her out for spinal or neck injuries, and she seems to be fine in that department. She shows signs of a major concussion, but at least she knows where she is and can sort of remember what happened. Now, you're sitting on the stool in front of her, her knees pulled tightly to each other, hands clenching the hem of her muddy shorts. She winces every time you bring the gauze down to her head wound.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly, "there's just a lot of blood due to the location, and I've got to get a better idea of how big this is."

She doesn't say anything, totally compliant with your request to keep still, but her eyes lock on to yours. You notice a shimmer of understanding in the deep blue orbs. She's dazed, confused, bleeding, and more than likely concussed, but she still seems comforted by your presence. You take pride in this, it's your job and you do it well.

When you finally get the bleeding to stop, you gently pull back her hair to get a better look at the cut. You see that it's about an inch and a half-long gash, and stitches will be necessary. You turn around to Will, he's been leaning against another bench, watching you to make sure you don't mess up. "_Hospital_", you mouth silently.

He nods in understanding, and looks over to Brittany. "Ok, Brittany, you're going to need stitched for that, so if you can remember your parent's number, we can get someone to drive you to the hospital. Can you give us a number?"

She looks up at him dizzily, seeming confused. "I-I don't remember their numbers. I never do anyways, even without hitting my head. But now I don't even know where my phone is and..." She beings to ramble on and on, something about a cat remembering things for her.

You look over to Will, your eyes widened. You have no freaking idea what to do. This girl has always been spacey, it's what intrigues you about her. You're normally bothered by people like her, all of your friends are, in general, relatively smart. The only time you can ever be around ditzy girls is when you're at a party, drunk, and they're looking at you with eyes that say "_Sure, I'll experiment_."

Those are the looks you live off of, so why are you sitting here now, in this incredibly sober moment, wanting to do anything to comfort the poor girl? _So not cool_. Santana Lopez does not comfort random ditzy girls whilst sober, especially not on a Thursday night.

Will gives Brittany this tight-lipped smile and beckons you over to where he's standing. Pulling off your bloody latex gloves, you swing your legs over the stool, pat Brittany's knee an-_What the fuck?_You just patted her knee. Just nonchalantly patted her knee, in an affectionate, comforting way. The normal, regular, _real_ Santana would have freaked out for two minutes before even bringing up the courage to lightly brush this girl's knee. She's _popular_. Sure, you have quite a few friends. Maybe ten or so close ones, and a good hundred acquaintances with whom you can make light conversation at any given time, but this girl is something else. Her and Quinn, her best friend and fellow popular multisport blonde rule this damn school. They have since freshmen year.

Anyway, you shake yourself out of you little freakout and shuffle over to Will. He starts talking to you, glancing over at Brittany from time to time, but you aren't really listening. He's saying something about how he would drive her but he has to stay because he and Emma rode together again and she's still out at baseball. You can't even get yourself to come up with some witty comment about the two of them and their creepy little relationship.

"I'll drive her." The words come out of your mouth before you can even stop yourself from saying them. Will looks pleased, though, and tells you to go get Brittany's stuff while he puts a temporary bandage on her face. You just turn around and walk like a robot, out of the training room, down the hall, hang a left to go through the field house, up the ramp, another left, and you're in front of the soccer locker room. You reach to unclip the ring front your belt loop.

It's one of the perks of the job, you've got keys to everything athletics related at McKinley. Everything. And there are a lot of doors with locks in the gym wing. You feel like sort of a badass, walking around with your radio and your thirty four keys. Thirty four. Such badassery. You unlock the door to the locker room, and your nose is met with the smell of turf, old cleats, and fruity body spray. The combination makes you gag immediately, and you're sure you look like one of those mentally damaged hyenas from The Lion King.

You locate the red and white locker that says "Pierce #10" in the varsity section, and you are thankful at this moment that Brittany is, well...slower. Her locker hangs open, obviously not usually locked, stuff spilling out. You run over and being stuffing clothes in her gym bag. You blush and look around when you see her pink with black polka-dotted bra. Nobody's there, the door is locked, and for goodness sake's, you're a girl, but you still feel awkward picking it up and shoving it into the bag. With her bag and backpack in hand, you leave the room.

You looked through both bags for her phone, but she seems to have managed to hide it from herself quite well. You sigh as you go back to the training room. There's no chance that you'll get to watch _Grey's_ tonight. Not a chance.

You and Will are helping Brittany out to your car. He's behind her, holding her elbows as she walks to help steady her pace. You're thankful for that, because the thought of having Brittany Pierce solely in your care is freaking you out. This isn't the first time you've had to take someone to the hospital. You must have driven at least five freshmen boys during football season, and a few more this winter during wrestling, but they all had ankle or wrist injuries. This is different, it's the star of the girls soccer program with a bad head injury. Not to mention the fact that you are incredibly attracted to her, and its making your nerves even worse.

Will helps her into the passenger seat while you dump her stuff in the back. You stand at the driver's side door and he looks at you, letting out a sigh as he runs his hands through the thick brown curls on top of his head. "Be careful with her, and make sure they send me the full medical report. Also, tell them we couldn't IMPACT her but we'll do it tomorrow."

You nod, and slide into the driver's seat. It's embarrassing, your beat up red Toyota Corrolla is not in any shape for passengers. Usually, the only other people in here are your friends who don't care, or drunk girls who are too wasted to care about the crappy state of the vehicle, both inside and out. Brittany is struggling with her seatbelt. Her hands are shaking.

"Hey, you good?" you ask, immediately feeling stupid due t your word choice. She's obviously not "good", what with the recent head trauma and the fact that she's in a t-shirt and shorts, covered in wet mud, and probably freezing. She just mumbles feebly in response.

You take off the red and white jacket that says "McKinely Student Athletic Trainer" on the back, and "Lopez" on the front, and hand it to her.

"Here, put this on, and I'll get your seatbelt for you."

She blushes a little, but gives in and slips her arms through the holes in the jacket, bundling it around herself. You reach over and deftly clip her seatbelt in place. You're glad you didn't fumble like an idiot or accidentally touch her boob or something, and with her secured, you put the car in drive and pull out of the athletic lot, heading in the direction of Lima Memorial hospital.

Its eight-thirty, and you bounce on your feet at the hospital pharmacy. The pharmacist is filling Brittany's prescription for pain medication. Seeing as she obviously has a concussion and her headaches are imminent due to the rattled brain and head wound, the doctor decided to prescribe her with some basic painkillers. Will texted you her mom's number, and the two of you talked on the phone. She was at work but she relayed all the insurance information to the doctor through your phone, and now all you have to do is pick up these meds and drive Brittany to her house.

It's been a long night, even though it's not even nine, and you are used to working until ten. Well, maybe not during spring season when things wrap up after dark, but you definitely remember working until ten during winter season. It's probably just the stress that's making you exhausted. Ever since you turned eighteen in October, Will and Emma have been giving you a hell of a lot more responsibility. It's not always easy.

You grab the little white bag that the pharmacist hands to you and walk quickly towards the elevator. Up two flights, hang a right, and you're in the ER wind of Lima Memorial. It's nothing new to you, you know this hospital like the back of your hand. Years of your childhood were spent wandering around, escaping from daycare as your parents worked in the hospital. You explored everything, it's what made you interested in medicine.

Of course, now you're more interested in sports medicine, its fun to be in the thick of things, the first on the scene of a nasty athletics-related injury. The adrenaline rush it brings doesn't hurt either.

You sigh as you walk into the room that Brittany is in, smiling at the nurse that you recognize from years of encounters. "All right Paula, I've got her from here, thanks for all the help."

Paula smiles and helps Brittany down from the exam table. She's gotten twelve stitches and a fresh bandage is covering her treated wound. Somehow, through all the crap she's been through the past few hours, she still manages to look amazing. Her white uniform may be covered in dirt and dried mud, along with a lot of her pale white skin, but she's still sort of glowing. Your hold the door open for her and make your way towards the automatic sliding doors to the ER, and out into the parking lot. I

Its pitch black outside now, and after helping Brittany into the car, you drive her home, remembering the directions her mom gave you over the phone. It's not difficult to find, the two of you actually live about three blocks away from each other, something you never knew after going to high school with her for the past three and a half years.

Only after helping her out of the car and up to the stairs, receiving a thankful smile from her mother, and running back to your car, do you realize she's still wearing your jacket. It's cold in your damn car, but you smile, knowing that at least she's warm even if you have to freeze your ass off. Yawning, you drive off towards your house, wondering how you're going to get the mud stains out of the passenger seat.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**Review as always, my friends. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: currently replacing chapters with fewer weird rants at the start/finish.**

**Keep an eye out for new content.**

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><p><em>Beep. Beep. Beep Beep. Beep Beep Beep.<em>

You groan as you swat wildly at the alarm clock on your bedside table. Its six-thirty am, Friday morning. Time to get up for school. You feel the button click on the alarm, and the heinous noise finally stops.

With the beeping problem fixed, you groan again as you haul your ass out of bed. Mornings are _not_ your thing, especially since you had to stay up late to wait for _Grey's Anatomy_ to come online (illegally, of course) because you missed it while taking Brittany to the hospi-_Wait_. _You took Brittany to the hospital_. Gorgeous, athletic, blonde Brittany. Brittany that you've been pining for since sophomore year.

This is too much for you to think about as your feet hit the floor, shivering, you go through the routine that has ruled most of your mornings for the past four years. Shower, then clothes (black skinnies and a McKinley t-shirt, Fridays are Red and White days). Hair and makeup done, you run down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen.

It's 6:58 am, and you have two minutes, two minutes to spend with your parents before they head off to the hospital. You aren't complaining because you're grateful for the awesome life they've given you, but two minutes every twenty-four hours is not enough. Some mornings, you seriously miss the days when you were able to wake up at five-thirty all the time to spend mornings with your mom and dad. But, at age eighteen, you need as much sleep as you can. It isn't easy to look this hot, but you do.

If it wasn't for the known fact that you had an exclusive interest in women, you'd probably have guys all over you. In fact, some morons still try to convince you that they can "fix you" or "make you see the right way". You fell for that once at the beginning of tenth grade, but now you and Puck have put that traumatizing experience aside, and you've gained a best friend.

"Morning _Mami_, _Papi,_ it's great to see you guys!" You are genuinely happy to see them, you overslept yesterday and missed them, and you were stuck with a note reminding you of the frozen pizza.

"Ah, good morning _Mija_, glad to see you today, there's a frozen dinner in the second shelf of the freezer, if you don't go out tonight after training." Your mother is smiling and fixing her travel mug of coffee at the island in the kitchen. You father already has his briefcase under his arm as he attempts to eat toast while checking his phone.

You give him a kiss on the cheek and hug your mother, telling them "I love you" as they rush out the door to the BMW parked in the driveway. You sigh as they drive off, grabbing a protein bar out of the box on the counter near the fridge. Emma would tell you that your daily Clif bar isn't a healthy breakfast, and you would roll your eyes. The woman is nice, but she polishes her fruit. Her_fruit_. Though, you do sort of appreciate her OCD tendencies, the training room at school is completely _spotless_. You can't understand why she chose a profession that is so full or dirt, blood, and sweat, but then again, as long as she has her super-thick latex gloves, she's all set.

You sit in the kitchen eating your protein bar and flipping through some required reading for the next half hour. It's one of the perks of being a second-semester senior, you have a lot of downtime at school. Sure, you spent the last three years working your ass off filling credits, but now it's March of senior year and most of your classes are relaxed. You're taking 4English and AP Anatomy, but those are the only two classes that ever give you a major workload.

At seven-thirty, you grab your small backpack and your keys from the counter and walk to the back door. You pull on some cute red lace-up Toms (took you hours to find them on the internet) because they totally complete your look (matching is _the best_) and reach for your jacket without thinking, its part of your routine.

But the jacket isn't there, you remember, as your hand whacks into the hook and you swear loudly in a mixture of Spanish and English. _Your jacket is with Brittany_, you think as you step out the back door. You almost smack yourself in the face, because you feel the cool wind blowing on your teeth, you're grinning like a fool. The idea of Brittany having your jacket is putting a spring in your step. It's like in the movies when the jock's hot girlfriend wears his letterman jacket, except yours is a Dri-Fit windbreaker, and you aren't a jock. You're Santana Lopez, athletic trainer and all-around badass, the girl whose jacket is in the possession of one Brittany Pierce.

Then a sinking feeling hits you, because _what if she forgets it?_ It's no secret that Brittany is a little slower than most, definitely not stupid, but especially with the concussion, she might forget it, and then you'll be stuck at the Lacrosse game with no jacket. You sigh heavily and pray that Brittany remembers, then unlock your car and climb in.

Looking over to the passenger seat, you see all of the mud stains, _and is that a little bit of blood on the corner? _Thoroughly grossed out (it's not that you're afraid of blood, it's just that this blood happens to be on your car), you make a mental note to go to the car wash and get the inside detailed. It's been needing it badly anyway, especially after Puck spilled beer all over the back seat on a drunken two am joy ride. _That_ night won't be forgotten any time soon.

The drive to WMHS only takes a little over ten minutes, and you pull into the athletic lot by seven forty-five. School doesn't start until eight-thirty, but sitting around at home after your parents leave drives you insane and you'd rather get to school early, do last-minute work, and hang out with friends. You're cold as you walk into the back entrance of the building. You were too lazy to grab another jacket and you figured that if Brittany didn't bring yours you could just steal Puck's warmup. He won't need it anyway, he'll be busy playing Lacrosse.

Deciding that you should probably work on your poster project for graphic design (oh, senior electives) instead of fucking around in the hallways for half an hour, you head for the back of the art wing where the graphics lab is located. It's probably the second coolest non-athletics related room in the school. The first being the photography darkroom, a place you had the pleasure of spending hours in during first semester (again, you love yourself some electives). It's just rows and rows of shiny new Mac computers all set up with the best design and editing programs available.

You settle down in front of a screen and pull up your project, focusing on your work and ignoring everything around you.

Half an hour later, the project is looking pretty good, and you can hear two voices talking softly on the other side of the lab. The first is sharp but caring, and you know it belongs to Ms. Holiday. She's an art teacher who sort of flits between subjects, teaching a different class each period. You had her for photo and now for graphic design, and you know her well enough to be quite sure of her insanity.

The other voice is softer, definitely female. The girl is talking slowly, saying something about having a headache and being a little dizzy. She's making an excuse to try and get out of doing her classwork. You scoff at the laziness, but then consider the excuse. _Headache and dizziness...it sounds like the classic symptoms of...a concussion?_ You jerk your head up from your screen, and sure enough, there's a tall blonde girl standing there with her back to you. You know it's Brittany, not in a creepy way though, it's just...she's wearing _your jacket_.

As soon as you come to this realization, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out and there's a new message. Glancing at the sender, you see the four letters and already sense trouble.**Puck. **You roll your eyes and look over the rest of the little blue box.

**Lopez. was checkin' out a fine piece of ass when noticed said girl wearing ur jacket. wasn't u tho. brittany pierce stole ur jacket, thought u outta kno.**

You glare at your phone hoping to send the negative vibes through to Fuckerman. Asshole. He didn't even consider that maybe Brittany had borrowed it because you were being chivalrous or some shit. Frustrated you save your work and log off the computer, rushing out of the lab to go find that mohawked idiot and kick his ass.

You realize as you're halfway down the hall that you ran out of there without getting your jacket back. It was the perfect opportunity, too. Groaning audibly you storm off down the hallway towards the courtyard where you know you'll probably find Puck.

Six hours later, its eighth period and you are staring at the clock. English class. The teacher is...surprise, surprise, slightly insane. She seems to love to wear leopard-print clogs and her hair is wild and dyed random colors. She's old and she reminds you of the batshit professor-lady from _Harry Potter_. She also has a penchant for coming up with incredibly gruesome threats.

"Lopez, pay attention or I swear I'll cut out your tongue and throw you out the window, then call your parents and tell them the exact tree under which your mangled body will be lying!"

You roll your eyes, the woman reminds you of Sue Sylvester, the equally insane coach of the Cheerios. Somehow, that crazy bitch has also managed to score the spot as General Athletics Director. You suspect she is blackmailing Figgins, as she is always muttering things about him when trying to get what she wants.

Thankfully, the bell rings a few minutes later and you immediately gather your stuff and sprint out of the room. Perhaps the greatest gift senior year has given you is the joy that is ninth-period free. You almost ran into Figgins' office and gave the creepy little man a bear hug when you got your schedule, but decided against it as he didn't really know who you were and he probably didn't make the schedules anyway. You made a mental note to be nice to the office ladies, though, it was probably them.

Taking the stairs two at a time, you rush towards the back entrance of the school and wave to the security guard. At the beginning of the year, he used to stop you every day to check your schedule, but now it's just routine. Upon rounding the corner to the athletics lot, you see that Puck is already leaning against your car, checking his reflection in one of the mirrors.

"Hey, assface, thanks for the text this morning" you say, you couldn't find him before school so your anger has pretty much been stewing all day, and issue you've never been able to control. He looks genuinely offended.

"Woah, I was just trying to help you out, I mean she totally grabbed your jacket on accident, right?" He's holding out his hands, not wanting to get near your vicious claws.

"No, idiot, she split her head open last night. Majorly concussed and all that. I had to drive her to the ER and she was freezing, so I lent her the jacket." I was exasperated, she still hadn't given it back.

"Oh," he said frowning, "does that explain all the mud and stuff all over the passenger seat, 'cause I ain't sitting in there."

"Yeah, there's blood too, she put my car through a freakin' war zone" you say, glad he isn't teasing you.

"Hot piece of ass, though, you should hit that." There go your hopes to avoid teasing. You punch him in the gut, deciding he'd bitch and moan too much if you messed up his face, and put your key in the lock of the driver's side door. Leaning into the car, you unlock the back door by Puck. Your car is so ancient it doesn't have automatic locks. It doesn't even have automatic windows. You literally have to _roll_ down the windows. With a freaking crank.

You sit in a comfortable silence as you drive to Herb's. It's sort of become a Friday tradition for you and Puck. You both get out of school early and drive over to the quiet little restaurant, grabbing burgers and fries before zooming back to McKinley. It's a sort of pre-game ritual. You need junk food to keep your body going for the hours that you will spend on your feet, stressing about every little thing and attempting to maintain a professional attitude, and Puck just needs food.

Ideally, as Emma would say, he should be eating something like grilled chicken and drinking room-temperature water to keep himself hydrated and avoid cramping, but he seriously doesn't give a shit. That boy can put anything in his body and still pull through, you've seen him do it constantly.

By the time you get back to the school, it's three-forty and Puck gives you a fist bump before sprinting off in the direction of the Lax locker room. You sigh and get out of the car, grabbing a clean pair of khakis and your polo from where they lie folded in the backseat. Using your impressive amount of keys, you enter the women's general locker rooms from outside the school, and change quickly into your uniform.

It's quiet when you get into the training room, awkwardly so. Fridays are usually a pre-game bustle during the spring season, with everyone fighting over heating pads or foam rollers, and general loud noise and chaos that Emma can't stand. You love the chaos, because it keeps you entertained, if you get bored you'd just get tired and pissed off.

It's dark in the room, because nobody ever bothers to turn the lights on before it gets busy, as if they are a symbol of peace and silence. The room is on two levels. The higher one starts at the door, and is a small area with taping benches and counters that hold cabinets full of all the medical supplies. Above the taping station there are shelves with bright orange Gatorade coolers, all numbered and organized by size. The trainers supply water and ice to all of athletics, so you deal with these coolers all the time. The lower level of the room is accessible by ramp or three short stairs. One side has tile flooring and three benches, as well as a small raised area with the giant ice machine, hoses, and heating pad station. The tile floor in the raised are has a lot of grates to drain water, as this is where most of the mess is made.

On the other side of the lower level is the carpeted area. There are also three benches there, as well as an ultrasound machine, three spin bikes, an arm bike, and various other rehab equipment that is organized very neatly, thanks to Emma. At the back of the carpeted area is a door and twoo large glass windows.

Behind these is Will and Emma's office. In there, there are two chairs, two desks, a mini-fridge, a coffee maker, a microwave, multiple filing cabinets, and a lot of cleaning supplies. It is a tiny office, and it's a wonder that all of these things fit jammed into there, especially since there are sometimes up to five people occupying it. While it should be a tiny, cluttered space, the office is the cleanest place you've ever been in. You can't imagine what Emma's home looks like in comparison. Woman is hardcore.

Emma and Will are in the office so you just slip in there and put your stuff in an unoccupied corner (it's hard to find one). Will's side is the closest to the door, and he snaps his head back to greet you.

"Santana, hey!" he says, seeming like he isn't really all that excited, it's his bad news voice.

"Hey Will, Em" you reply politely. These two are like the young, semi-cool aunt and uncle you never had. They really don't belong here in Lima, they're so good at what they do that they should be teaching or working for some massive sports team or something. You've told Will this before (when you are in a good mood, which is rare), but he simply shrugs it off. He and Emma love the kids and you're pretty sure they also love working with each other. If you believed in that crap, you'd say they were "soulmates".

You're out in the main room again, filling the ten-gallon coolers with ice when Will pokes his head out of the door.

"Hey, Santana, can I talk to you for a moment, I've got some news you won't like." You groan, sure that your perfectly planned afternoon is about to get flushed down the shitter.

You close the lid of the ice machine (it slams) and toss the scoop onto the table before walking slowly into the office. Will's back at his computer typing away at some e-mail, and he spins around in his chair to face you.

"Okay, so the boy's lax game is cancelled, looks like Carmel's fancy bus broke down and they refuse to postpone it until later tonight. I've got to go to baseball and Emma's going to be at girl's lacrosse, we need you to hold down the fort in here today."

You groan, you love watching Puck and the team play, because they're actually really good and the sport is fastpaced and brutal. Plenty of injuries to tend to and you always get to steal Puck's extra warm and comfy lacrosse jacket.

"What about softball?" you ask, it's not lax but at least you won't be stuck in the office.

Will sighs, "You know Mercedes already has softball on lockdown, we promised her every game she wanted, you shook on it in February."

He's right, Mercedes is one of the other student trainers, and like you, she's one of the few that actually shows up. She's big and full of sass, but the two of you actually get along. When nobody's around you guys like to drive around in the golf cart and sing loudly, you both have great voices (nothing like a little modesty). One of her best friends, Tina Cohen-Chang, is the pitcher for the softball team, so she likes to be at the games so she can cheer her on, and you're cool with that because you got to lax to see Puck all the time.

Speaking of Puck, you turn around to see him burst through the door, swearing and yelling your name. Emma, whips her head around from where she was knitting in her chair but you hold up your hand in a way that says "I've got it." The poor woman hates yelling and noise, but there's nobody else but you that can calm down an angry Puck.

"Lopez! Why's my game cancelled? I thought you were gonna come watch me get my lax on and then go hit up the parties and get hamme-" You cut him off, clapping a palm over his mouth. Seeing as you are technically "in season" as an "athlete" for training, you can't drink or do drugs or the penalties will be twice as bad as they would be for normal students. You also don't want to lose Will or Emma's respect.

"Puck, it's not my fault, something about Carmel's bus. And yes, we're still going to 'hang out' tonight, just meet me in here after your practice, then we'll dip." You don't usually skip out early, and you know it'll piss off Will and Emma, but it's Friday night, they cancelled "your" game, and you seriously need to find some drunk girl and get your mack on because thoughts of Brittany have been invading your head all day.

Ever since the night before, she's been a constant presence in the back of your mind. The way you couldn't bring yourself to be pissed off at her, they fact that taking care of her made you feel_better_ than good. It made you feel right, and you can't stand it.

You hear a shuffling at the door and some high pitched giggles, and look up to see two boys standing at the door. One is short and in a tight black t-shirt, the other is tall and in a wife beater that is stretched thin across his muscled chest.

"Changster, fairy boy, how lovely of you two to join us this afternoon," you say, flatly.

It's Kurt Hummel and Mike Chang, stars of the men's gymnastics team. Mike is tall, Asian, and an amazing dancer and gymnast. He also plays football in the fall and swims during the winter. He breaks the stupid stereotype (it seriously bothers you how people judge these days) of male gymnasts and dancers, and is straight as an arrow, dating Tina. He's excellent at the rings, but mainly competes on the pommel horse, which is very impressive.

Kurt, on the other hand, only solidifies the gymnast stereotype. He's like you, a Grade-A homosexual, with a fashion sense that kills (literally, you got spiked with his studded fanny pack and actually managed to lose blood). He's as graceful as they get, doing floor routines filled with backflips and other incredible tricks. He's seriously strong for his small stature, and most bullies learned not to mess with him after he took up gymnastics. He addresses you in the same flat tone you just used, but his voice is a higher pitch.

"Well hello to you too, Satan (his nickname for you, _so_ creative), we were just in here to get taped, but if you aren't up for your duties I'll just call 'Cedes." He whips his iPhone out of nowhere; you don't even want to know where he was hiding it.

You 're sure that he and Mike could tape themselves, Kurt only needs his arches done, and Mike's wrists need to be supported, but they always come in to say hello and have a nice conversation before practice. Today you're in no mood, but you shoo puck out the door and walk the other two boys over to the taping station.

Mike holds out his wrists and as you begin your job, you two begin talking about Tina. You ask him how her season's going and how their relationship is. You always refer to her as "The Misses" because they have the same last name (ohh, Asians). You don't usually care about this lovey-dovey crap, but they have an actually epic relationship.

You shudder as you think of the fact that so many of the people around you really do have solid love lives. Along with Mike and Tina, there's Will and Emma (you're waiting for your wedding invite) as well as Kurt's sickeningly cute relationship with Blaine Anderson, one of the few baseball players you can stand. Mercedes also dates Sam Evans, a total lax bro but an all-around good guy. You're glad that you will always have Puck, because you have someone to whore yourself out with on the weekends. You're always each others wing-people until one or both of you finds a hookup and parts ways.

You finish with Mike's wrists and move on to Kurt's arches. He's wiggling his toes and you smack his left foot so that you can do a tear-drop tape job on his arch. The toes stop moving, and sure enough they're painted bright red for McKinley spirit. Some days it seems like Kurt will stop at nothing to be as flamboyant as possible, and it makes you laugh. You're pretty gay yourself, but you still manage to look hot. A flannel and a flat-top just aren't your thing, and looking like any normal straight girl helps you avoid abuse, especially considering the fact that you are small in stature.

It's not like you couldn't kick anybody's ass if you wanted to, your mom is straight outta Lima Heights (Lima's "ghetto"), and even though she's now a doctor, she taught you a few moves. You may live in Lima Heights Adjacent, the richer part of town, but you can still fight.

On the subject of fighting, your fists start twitching as you see the tip of an impressive beak out of the corner of your eye. Rachel Berry is approaching. She's small, a total diva, and obnoxiously good at lacrosse. You love the sport, but in your opinion, G-Lax can hardly be compared to the boy's version. First of all, it's "non-contact", which is an absolute oxymoron. The game stops every time someone gets whacked with a stick, and all the freshmen and sophomores constantly complain about injuries that you consider fake.

The only good thing about the sport is that the uniform includes a skirt. For some reason, the school ordered new ones from Adidas that are practically on the Cheerio's level when it comes to shortness. _Total. Win._

Rachel walks in, followed by Quinn Fabray, something that you find strange. They're varsity co-captains, but on the opposite ends of the social spectrum. While Quinn is blonde and gorgeous and at the top of the Cheerio's food chain, Berry spends her fall and winter as a social outcast, usually doing the school musical. She's talented to a painful degree, and likes everyone else to know it. Your respect for her is limited, but she does have serious lower back problems, and therefore and actual reason to be in your presence.

You don't know why Quinn is with her, though. She's not hurt, as far as you know, but she's trailing behind Berry who is gabbing her ear off. She's Brittany's best friend (your heart flutters when you think of her) and they're virtually inseparable around school. They're hot, they're cheerleaders, and they get away with anything. You'd love to be that popular, you're certainly bitchy enough, but you lack the enthusiasm for team sports. You also don't think people would sit too well with an openly lesbian cheerleader, even though you've secretly hooked up with plenty of the squad.

Rachel gives you a short nod as she learned long ago not to speak with you because you have a tendency to viciously insult people who piss you off. As far as you're concerned, she's in your book on the same page as Medusa, and you avoid eye contact with her if at all possible.

She goes over to the heating pads to warm her muscles before her rehab routine, still talking to Quinn who is now just sitting silently on one of the benches, her legs swinging over the edge. She looks at you, gives you the once over, and a sudden recognition flashes over her hazel eyes.

"Lopez? Santana, right?" she says, a little unsure of herself, obviously having assumed who you are through racial profiling. But you'll let it go, the girl can't help herself as she doesn't know you.

"Yeah, that's my name, don't wear it out." You snapped at her, even though you really shouldn't have. It's just been a really long day.

"I knew it was you, Brittany described your eyes perfectly," she says, ignoring your comment and maintaining her incredible poise, "she's still coming in today, she just had to go home for a while. The dizziness was getting to her. She should be here by five, she told me to tell you specifically. It was really cool what you did for her yesterday. Oh, and she has your jacket."

You nod your head continuously, like an idiot. You stopped listening to what she was saying after the bit about your eyes. Brittany Pierce described your eyes. At this moment, you could seriously fall over and die because your life is complete. You only actually met the girl for the first time yesterday, and she had a major concussion. You two probably made eye contact a total of five times, but apparently through the brain-addling concussion and the headaches and dizziness, she somehow found time to describe your eyes to Quinn Fabray.

In your opinion, your eyes pale in comparison with Brittany's. They're the most beautiful things in the world, like two endless pools of blue (_ughh,_ you can't believe your brain thinks such cheesy things).

Your heart is beating incredibly fast, because it's four twenty-nine, and if Quinn is telling the truth, you get to see this girl in half an hour. In fact you will definitely be interacting with her multiple times because you're "holding down the fort" for Will. You almost want to go give the Carmel High bus a giant hug for breaking down, even if Puck would slay you on the spot. He lives by a serious "Bros before ho's" code, and you shouldn't even be allowed to be excited secretly but this is just a whole different story.

You realize that Quinn is now eying you inquisitively, one perfect eyebrow arched. You haven't responded to her in over twenty seconds because you were too busy fantasizing about spending time with Brittany. Nothing interesting is going to happen, she'll probably just sit there at the computer taking a really long time on her IMPACT test, and then you'll save the results and send them to Will (you technically can't analyze them because you aren't certified). But, it's still a guaranteed hour of time with Brittany.

"Umm, uh, yeah. She's just going to have to take a little test on the computer. She...uh, she mentioned my eyes?" You immediately blush for both sounding like a moron and asking that stupid question, but you really want to know.

"Yeah, she was all glazed over in a concussion haze, I mean she usually rambles but she was saying a lot of really nice things about you. Guess I was wrong about you." Quinn is smiling sincerely.

_Wait, what?_ What the hell does this bitch mean "guess I was wrong about you"? You're pissed because you know she judged you for your lady-lovin' tendencies. It's such a typical move for someone like her to pull. All the ultra-popular kids (you're semi-popular yourself, proud of it) at WMHS are always on your tits about being gay. They act like it's a terrible thing and then get drunk at parties and practically beg you to make out with girls in front of them. It's so hypocritical.

You realize that while Quinn may have judged you, it seems that Brittany did not. That thought causes the butterflies to flutter back in, and you feel uncomfortable with this conversation. Shooting Quinn a tight-lipped half-smile, you walk back to the ice machine and finish filling the ten-gallons for the three events going on outside.

Will comes out of the office after a few minutes and you help him carry the water up the three stairs and out the door, around the corner, and outside to the back of the white golf cart. You shiver the first time the air hits your skin, its _cold as fuck_. March in Ohio is not suitable weather to be going without a coat, even if you are only making three short trips outside to carry each of the coolers.

He gives you a short lecture about not messing around while he's gone (you once attacked some annoying freshmen wrestlers with a hose while left alone), and Emma stands behind him, nodding furiously. You think very highly of the woman, but right now she looks like a Muppet and you are getting antsy waiting for Brittany to show up.

"Thanks for the lecture, mom n' pop, but I'm fine in here. I'll call in if I need help." You gesture to the radio clipped to your pocket and then wave them out the door. Mercedes is already at softball because they started early, and you've finally got a nearly empty room with Berry and Quinn gone.

You decide to pass the next fifteen minutes by re-organizing things that Emma has already organized. She'll get pissed at you for it, but she'll never do anything about it (the woman is a pushover) and you're ridiculously bored.

The next thing you know, a fair amount of time has actually passed and you hear an unfamiliar pair of shoes scuffing along the floor behind you. Before you can turn around, you gasp as you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist, and you can smell coconut as the taller person pulls you into an awkward hug. Whoever this is that is attacking you, they smell amazing.

You look down at the arms to see pale hands with long delicate fingers, they look unfamiliar, but you realize who it is as soon as you notice some very recognizable sleeves. Red and white, obviously a windbreaker. It's your jacket, and the realization that you are currently being embraced by none other than Brittany Pierce hits you in the stomach like a ton of bricks.

You were a half-second away from whipping around and giving this person a piece of your mind, but now knowing who it is, you're slower as you turn. She's got a serious head injury and you don't want to knock her down.

While she may have been hugging you, you could also feel her using you for support, and now you've turned to face her, and she's swaying a little bit.

Even with bags under her eyes and a large bandage on her head, she's still beautiful. Four seconds ago, you thought nobody could rock sweatpants and a messy bun, but she's instantly proved you wrong. You want to say something to her but your brain is in serious shock. _She just fucking hugged you! _Luckily she speaks first. Her speech is slow like it was this morning, but she still sounds happy to see you.

"I never did that yesterday. I probably should have thanked you more for driving me and stuff. And carrying me off the field. And cleaning my face. And getting my stuff. It was like, a super-unicorn thing to do and I would have hugged you at the hospital but I was dirty and you're so clean and pretty..."

She trails off, smiling at you and looking utterly exhausted the way all the concussion kids always do. You're just standing there opening and closing your mouth like some mentally challenged puppeteer is controlling your body, not able to make real words let alone sounds.

This girl, this sexy, popular, ridiculous, charming girl just complimented you. Not too many people manage to compliment you in that way these days. You get the occasional "nice ass" or "fine pair of tits", sometimes even a "you're hot", but nobody has called you "pretty" in ages. You close your eyes and shake your head quickly, trying to regain your fine motor skills.

A few seconds later and you're back in action, pretty confident your speaking abilities have returned.

"Wow, thanks, it's kind of my job though. But thanks anyways. Well, let's head to the office for your IMPACT test, do you remember taking the baseline at the beginning of the season?"

She nods slowly and smiles again, and you continue to absolutely melt. It's going to be a _long_ evening.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for continuing to read this story.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**One Hour Later.**

It's almost completely empty in the room. There are a couple of freshmen with knee injuries who are doing low-impact workouts on the spin bikes, but other than that it's just you. Well, it's just you and Brittany. She's locked in the office taking her test on Emma's computer. The test is administered at the beginning of every season to give you a baseline score and it tests reflexes, memory, and the way you interpret shapes and certain other things. When an athlete gets a head injury that shows a sign of a possible concussion, they come in and take the test again.

The results are then compared (through the computer program, even Emma doesn't know how to read them) with the baseline and that figures out the severity or existence of the concussion. The person will usually take it every few weeks until they return to play, just to test their progress. Some people are just really slow (you suspect that Brittany's baseline wasn't too good, but it doesn't mean she's stupid), and then the results aren't too accurate. In these cases, Will just gauges their progress by the intensity of their symptoms.

Brittany's been at it for an hour and you're getting incredibly bored. The two freshmen are lame and also friends with each other, so they offer no escape from the lull of a quiet Friday. You've been sitting on a stool scrubbing out a cooler forever, and you glance at your watch and realize its 6:15. Practices have been over since six and you know that Puck will probably be in soon.

On Fridays when there are a lot of events, the training room usually closes right after regular practice time ends to allow the athletic trainers to focus more on the games. Since you're the only one in there today, a job that Will and Emma don't really trust anyone else with, you get to decide when to close up. If you had it your way, you'd already be out of here, because it's Friday night and you've had a particularly long week, but Brittany is holding you up.

You hear loud footsteps and whoops echoing down the particularly echo-y hallway (you've always been amazed at the sound that can be produced in that hall), and you know its Puck. Sure enough, the man himself enters a few minutes later. He's dressed in normal clothes and a towel is around his shoulders, meaning he's showered.

This is good, because when he gets in your car in his foul-smelling lax pennies and sweaty shorts, you have to attack him with body spray. You actually have a travel stick of Old Spice in your glove compartment for just that reason. He's bounding down the stairs to where you're sitting in front of the ice machine, looking impatient and antsy. He always looks this way before the weekend starts, like he can't wait for all the excitement.

"Lopez! Drop the cooler and get a move on, I'm hungry as hell!" He's bouncing on his toes in a very uncool way, and when he notices the freshmen in the other side of the room, he looks embarrassed. "Hey losers, it's way after six, get your asses out of here or I'll throw you out!"

You groan, he's got no authority in here, and even you don't have the ability to boss people around like that. If they complain to Will, you'll have to take the fall, and he'll get really disappointed.

"Moron, they're just finishing up. Anyways, we have to wait for Brittany to finish the test." You gesture towards the closed office door and he looks at it and then at you, wriggling his eyebrows.

You shoot him an "as if" look, and then turn away, blushing because you feel like you've been caught, even though there's nothing going on between the two of you.

He just grunts in disapproval (he always begs you to let him join in on some girl on girl, its gross) and sits down on a stool next to you, his feet on an overturned cooler. The freshmen finish their bike workout and groan as they get off the spin bikes, walking over to you to hand you the laminated sheets that dictate their workout.

You just roll your eyes at them because even though the spin workouts are really difficult, those two still complain _way _too much for their own good. Sitting there with the sheets in your hand, you realize that they're the only thing out of place in the whole room, and that you will have to bring them into the office you technically finish cleaning up. It's also a really good excuse to check on Brittany.

You stand up and walk quietly over to the office, pushing the door open as softly as you can. Emma is always very clear when she says that disturbing people taking the IMPACT test is a bad idea, so you are as silent as possible.

Walking in, you glance up at the screen of Emma's computer. Brittany has her back to you but judging from the fact that the end-screen of the test is up, and her body is slightly slumped, her blonde hair falling to conceal her face, the girl is asleep. Upon closer inspection, you have to clap your hand over your mouth to keep from chuckling out loud.

Her face is totally relaxed and peaceful, and it's the most precious thing you've ever seen, but there's a hilarious string of drool dribbling from the corner of her mouth. She looked so _exhausted_earlier and you don't want to disturb her, but she's done testing and you really want to get out of here.

You walk over to where she is, and lean carefully over her, hitting the "save" option on the result screen and saving the document to a file on Emma's desktop. You straighten up again, and your elbow accidentally brushes against the soccer star's shoulder.

She begins to stir, and you're secretly glad that you didn't have to plot a way to wake her up on your own. It would have been really awkward no matter how you planned it out. Now, she's starting to sit up, wiping the drool away with the sleeve of her..._your_ jacket. You'd think it was absolutely disgusting, but she just looks too cute doing it and you figure you're going to have to wash the thing anyway. You crouch down next to her, making eye contact with those two deep blues.

"Hey there, you fell asleep, huh? I would let you rest but it's almost six-thirty and we're going to close down."

She smiles and straightens herself up in the chair. "I'm sorry for sleeping, I decided to close my eyes after the test, 'cause they were tired from all the shapes, guess I must have drifted off."

You nod, you had looked at the time it took her to finish the test, and she'd only fallen asleep about five minutes before you came in. It makes sense for her to be tired, she wasn't allowed to sleep for a while after the hospital, just to make sure she had full consciousness and wouldn't slip into a coma. Even when she was allowed to close her eyes, the headache probably kept her awake.

"It's cool," you say, "we just need to close. Is someone coming to pick you up?" You're a little impatient, even though you'd actually rather spend the evening with her than with Puck. You love the guy to death but the two of you spend every Friday together and he's been being a bit of a duck recently. Speaking of the guy, he's come over to see what's taking so long, and is just leaning against the door watching the two of you with a smirk playing across his face.

Brittany glances at a clock and the wall and then bites her lip. "I was supposed to call my mom and tell here when I was done, so I can do that now. It's gonna take her half an hour though."

You gulp, you really don't want her waiting alone at the school on a Friday night. The security guards are cool and all, but after ten minutes of "loitering" (such bullshit) they'll kick you out and make you wait outside near the back entrance. It's past six so it'll probably be dark outside, and you glance at Puck. He's obviously realizing the same thing, except unlike you he's opening his mouth. He has something to say.

"Hey, why doesn't San here just give you a ride home? You're out by her place, right?"

It's kind of creeping you out that he knew where she lives and you hadn't found out until last night, but she's a cheerleader and he's a football player. They all have general knowledge of each other, it's like some sort of creepy rule. You're blushing hugely because the thought of her in your car two nights in a row is making you wish it was really a regular thing, and not just totally circumstantial. She's smiling and nodding at him, and she glances at you, her blue eyes searching, looking for your answer.

You can't help yourself and before you know it you're opening your mouth. "Yeah, that's fine, let's get going then."

Brittany flashes you a grin and stands up, a little shaky. She must be really dizzy still. You shut down the computer and leave Will a quick note telling him you'll be in on Monday and to have a good weekend. Puck is just smiling as he bounds up the stairs, he shoots you a wink and holds the door open for the two of you, ushering you out in a pretentious matter.

You take a left when you exit because there's a side entrance to that hallway that is usually locked, but you've got the keys. There's a short set of three stairs leading down to where the door is, and although Brittany has seemed to maintain her dancer's grace, she's wobbling a little bit going down.

You shoot your hand out to her wrist instinctively, steadying her, and..._is that a blush creeping up her neck?_ The slight change in her complexion causes you too blush a little as well, she's probably just embarrassed but your body wants to think that she's as flustered as you are. You pull out your keys, inserting them into the electronic lock on the wall. The light above the door turns off, a telltale sign that the door is unlocked, and Puck pushes the door open. Turning your key again to lock it, you follow Brittany out into the now-emptying student lot.

"All right let's go, my stomach's been growling forever, we're going to eat so many breadsticks, San!" Puck is jiggling on the handle of the back door. You roll your eyes at how impatient he is, but you secretly can't wait either. The two of you always hit up Breadstix before heading out to find a party on Friday nights. It's the cheapest Italian place in down and they are legally obligated to continue to bring you breadsticks as long as you are still seated. The two of you have taken full advantage of this policy, ever since you stumbled upon the place one time with a serious case of the munchies and only a little bit of cash.

Brittany's eyes seem to light up when she hears the word "Breadsticks", and you get a sinking feeling in your stomach.

"Oh my goodness, you guys go there too? I love it but Quinn will never drive me, something about crabs." She looks down at the concrete and you glance up at Puck. He's got a confused look on his face ( she obviously meant "carbs" but he's not the brightest bulb) but a devilish glint in his eye. _Not again._

"Well you should come with us, blondie! Lopez and I could always use the company of a lady!"

You groan, because he just made you sound creepy and desperate as hell. He may be desperate, and he may not be afraid to show it, but your reputation is to remain cool and distant. You almost never have to make the first move, and you "don't do dating", because most of the chicks you get "don't do _girls_."

But despite your obvious despair, Brittany is radiating enthusiasm. She nods furiously, but then clutches her head. You feel a pang of sympathy for her, she's probably in a lot of pain.

"Well, only if you're up to it Brittany. I wouldn't want to make you come out with us if you've got a headache." You're trying to remain calm and collected. You _really_ want her to come with.

She quickly pulls her hands down from her head, and tells you she's fine. You sigh again, and unlock the car, hoping she's telling the truth.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, you find yourself walking up a set of unfamiliar stairs. Brittany's mom isn't home from work yet, and she's convinced you to come in to help her change her bandage. It seems like the simplest task, something she should be able to do on her own, but she practically begged you. You're not used to gorgeous blondes tugging at your hand, pleading with you in a cute, pouty way, so you gave in. It's a serious embarrassment.<p>

When you reach the doorway of the room, your phone buzzes from a text and you reach into your pocket to grab it. **Puck**. This can only mean trouble, based off his record today.

"**ok san, if this takes too long im assumin getting it on, and im gonna cum up and join u. hot. ;)"**

You groan loudly, the message is insulting enough and the "cum" pun is just disgusting. Sure, you throw in a few "wankys" here and there, but he blatantly uses innuendo and its gross, especially since you don't want a threesome. It's something that is never going to happen, and Puck knows that, but it doesn't stop him from suggesting it every time you're alone with a girl for more than ten minutes. Even _your_ mind isn't as dirty as his.

You hear a giggle coming from a few feet in front of you and look up to see Brittany standing in the pale yellow room, staring at you. Glancing in the mirror behind her, you can see her back and your face, you're blushing, a lot. You palm your face and shake your head.

"Puck's just being an asshole." You say, you don't want to lie to her and that's as truthful as you can get without embarrassing yourself further.

She just giggles again and walks over to the desk on the left side of the room, sitting on it and peeling her bandage off. You walk over and stand in front of her, looking at the stitches. They're neat and the doctor seems to have done an amazing job. He was right when he said there would be minimal scarring, and she was lucky to have it just at her hairline. You spot a little bottle of hand-sanitizer on her desk and pump some onto your hands. You don't have gloves but at least now you can disinfect.

It's a little awkward, and you can't help but notice your proximity to Brittany. She's sitting on the table, her sweatpants-clad legs dangling open. You're standing in between them putting antibiotic cream on her skin. You aren't extremely close to her, but it still feels strangely intimate considering the fact that you two only began talking the day before and it's been completely platonic. She probably doesn't swing _that_ way anyway.

There's a bit of an awkward silence, but Brittany breaks it, her soft voice filling the room.

"Puck's not that bad, you know. You always seem to be pissed at him but he really likes you." She's trying to be reassuring as I placed the last touches on the bandage.

"I know, Brittany, he's like my brother, but sometimes he just gets under my skin. I'm not a nice person, anyway, I get pissed at everyone, people in gen-"

She interrupted me. "I think you're really nice, San." She was smiling and looking down at me. She was taller than me, especially perched on the desk, and I felt like I was staring up into her eyes.

My face flushed at the compliment, and I waved it off, shaking my head.

"No! Really! Quinn was wrong when she said you were moody."

Ugh. Quinn Fabray. She'd already pissed you off earlier today, and you didn't want her to be brought up. You stare at your red shoes, trying to ignore the anger. Brittany seemed to notice your sudden discomfort.

"Hey, she's not bad, she only said that when she was defending you!"

You whip your head up to her, she's got this brightness in her eyes, its sort of scary. The girl has gone from playful to dead serious in what seems like a second.

"Melissa, you know, the redhead, she was yelling at Jenny for hooking up with you at that party. She called you a whore who is just desperate and angry and trying to corrupt our squad with your...uhh, disease." Brittany looks pained for a moment, like she didn't mean for that part of the Cheerio's speech to slip out.

"Anyway, Quinn and I were in the locker room and we heard her. Quinn, she just freaked out. She yelled at Mel for saying such homophobic things and she said it wasn't your fault that you were moody and mean to everyone, because people like her were always dumping on you." The girl finishes, looking flustered and still very serious.

You're shocked. You've known Quinn since middle school but she's never appeared to give two fucks about you. She's always turned up her nose at people who aren't on the cheer squad or the football team. You have a lot of friends, but only a few of them are that high up on the food chain, so you assumed you were below her radar.

But then again, she seemed to at least tolerate Rachel today. In fact, Quinn had practically been following her around. You find this weird, but then again, learning that the shorter blonde in the dynamic duo has been secretly standing up for you is also pretty strange.

You look back up to Brittany and mutter "Thanks." She smiles back at you and you tell her to meet you and Puck down at the car when she's changed. Once you get down the stairs you're practically running out of the house towards your car. Everything about your time spent in Brittany's house was weird. She seemed to be incredibly comfortable in your presence even though you two had only recently been acquainted. You realize that you've spent the most time outside of school with her than with anyone else for the past few days. You've wanted to know her since you laid eyes on her in studyhall two years ago, and now that it's happening you are strangely unnerved.

Puck is stretched out in your backseat, lounging with his feet up on the door. You throw open your own door and scramble inside, it's really cold out and Brittany _still_ has your jacket. Puck notices your flushed face and sits up quickly. He can read you like a goddam book.

"Holy shit Lopez, did I just miss out on something hot?" You shoot him a look and shake your head, looking down at your hands.

You're kind of disappointed. The whole way over to Brittany's house, you were fantasizing about her blowing Puck off and dragging you up to her room. You had imagined her pushing you down on the bed, undressing you and insisting she return the favors you had paid her.

At the time you'd turned your head to look at her and found her drawing a picture of a cat on the fogged-up window. You'd immediately felt gross and horrible about your fantasy, because she looked incredibly innocent. It was a new feeling to you, because you usually let your mind wander when checking girls out, something you did all the time.

"I'm disappointed in you Santana, your player skills must be a litt- wait, do you _like_ her?" He's looking at you incredulously. You give him a "what the fuck" stare and whip your head away, looking out the windshield.

"She was giving you all the flirty signals, idiot! When she wasn't drawing farm animals on the window, she was staring at you. You hands, your boobs, your..."

"It was a cat." You cut him off, and he just shakes his head. "She was drawing a cat, Puck, not farm animals."

You don't know why you're correcting him, you should be freaking out, asking him every detail. But you're pretty sure that what you are currently experiencing is a severe case of shock. By informing you that Brittany did in fact appear to be interested in you, he's triggered some strange, deep-set trauma response system that is messing with your brain.

"And she wasn't, dumbass, your pervy mind is imagining shit again, you probably just wished so hard your eyes made it come true. Seriously all we did upstairs was change her bandage and talk. She says you're nice, by the way, so she obviously doesn't play for my team. Any decent lady lovin' woman can see past your bullshit and into your black heart, Puckerman. Besides, she's actually nice to me, I think I want to be friends with her."

You're satisfied with your coverup when he huffs and clamps his jaw shut. He's obviously mad that you seemed to have proven him wrong. You also sense a tad but of jealousy, he thinks he's your favorite person and every time you make a new friend he gets really moody.

The truth is, you're inwardly freaking out about what he said. If Brittany really is interested in you, then maybe you have a chance with her. She seemed touchy-feely today, but you've also heard rumors about her making out with girls at parties. Sure, she was probably shitfaced, but most girls at parties only make out with you. It's like your job, and seeing that maybe, just maybe there might be another girl, this perfect girl, who appreciates the fairer sex, well it's causing you to get all uncomfortable. It seems like you really like her.

* * *

><p>Forty minutes later the three of you are sitting in a booth at Breadsticks. Brittany has changed into some tight jeans and a grey top, with a black wool coat. She gave you back your jacket (finally), but it doesn't really match your tight black dress and red pumps (you have a thing for red shoes, it's not really a big deal), so you've opted for a short grey pea coat. It lets people see your ass while keeping you semi-warm at the same time.<p>

Despite Brittany's pleas, you've made her promise to let you drive her home after dinner. She wanted to go to Azimio's party, but you and Puck both objected immediately. He may be a pervert but you've constantly reminded him of the dangers of concussions, and he agrees with you that it isn't safe for Brittany to party. Neither of you want her to hit her head, and alcohol is a seriously bad idea. The noise factor wouldn't help her headaches, either, and that's what finally convinced her.

Even though you may be dressed up, you're still wolfing down breadsticks like a pro. You love these things, and waiting a week to eat them feels like waiting a lifetime. You and Brittany both ordered salads, you because the breadsticks are your main course and Brittany because she's still a little nauseous and she doesn't want to eat too much. Puck on the other hand is digging into a monster pile of ravioli, both elbows on the table, taking up the entire other side of the booth.

He's always been an eating machine and while you're used to it, Brittany has probably never seen someone consume that much food, that fast. She's sitting there, just staring at him eat. She had a piece of lettuce balanced on her fork but it's fallen off and is lying neglected on the table as she watches.

You sneak your hand over to where the lettuce is and pick up the piece, popping it into your mouth. She notices the movement and glances over, and you stick your tongue out at her. She giggles and you both turn to Puck, who is now wriggling his eyebrows and licking pasta sauce off his lips. You shoot him a glare and his eyebrows stop. He clears his throat.

"Hey, San, could you drop me off at Az's on your way to drop off Britt, then you can just meet me later." You shrug and nod your head. Azimio's an asshole and there's no sense in you showing up until people are drunk enough to throw themselves at you. You only say people because the boys will try and try, no matter how much you look down at their crotch and shake your head. Some people are _clueless_.

He grins and tells you you're the best before going back to his food. Brittany shoots you a glance and you roll your eyes. He does genuinely seem to like you, even if he's only thankful when you're doing shit for him. But you guess that's how most men work, and it doesn't help that Puck's a bit of a pig.

The three of you make light conversation throughout the rest of dinner, Puck talking with his mouth full and you kicking him under the table while Brittany giggles at your guys' antics.

Since you are with company, you and Puckerman decide that your classic style of dining and dashing once a month (the people here are _clueless_) will have to be postponed. You insist on paying, even though Brittany pouts at you, and the three of you leave, it's only nine p.m.

* * *

><p>When you drop off Puck at the loud house, its roof seems to be shaking. You don't really want to go back, it's been such a nice low-key night so far and you don't want some drunken hookup to obscure the good vibes you are getting.<p>

Brittany lets out a small "sigh" as you pull the car out of the driveway. You glance over to her, and she turns to you.

"It's been so fun hanging out with you guys...well now it's just you, but still, it was nice. Quinn's at some lax party and she won't hang out with me." She's got the pouty face on, and you can already tell she's trying to play the "poor little concussed Brittany" card. The two of you were "formally" introduced a little over twenty four hours ago and she already knows how to pull strings with you.

You return her sigh. "Well," you huff, sticking out your bottom lip to form a sarcastic, slightly comical pout "I guess I've been having a nice time too. And I really don't feel like going back to Azimio's to get felt up by horny jocks trying to turn me straight."

"That's disgusting." She says it in a sort of deadpan fashion, like it's horrible that any boy could even think about doing that to you. It is horrible, you know that, but nobody else seems to care.

"How about we just drive around," she says, "you can tell me all about yourself, because every time you talk I feel like I learn something new about you, and I like learning."

You blush at the cheesiness. She wasn't doing that on purpose, she was just being herself. It seems to you that Brittany's life is like some sort of high-school rom-com. Nothing is serious and everything is perfectly sweet. You normally hate talking to people at length, but you sigh and turn down the radio. There's something about her gaze that is therapeutic, it makes you want to share. You clear your throat and start talking.

* * *

><p>When you look over, stopped at a red light, Brittany's asleep. You glance at the blurry green numbers on the clock, your eyes adjusting to the close distance, used to staring out the windshield. You stop talking as you realize it's past midnight. The blonde next to you has been snoring lightly for about an hour as you drive aimlessly, but you kept talking. You were talking about nothing, about how you were sad you'd never get to see Amy Winehouse in concert, about how you really wanted to get a new car. You had been complaining about the economy when you had first noticed that she was asleep, but you hadn't really registered the time.<p>

For a moment, you panic, thinking that her mother is probably freaking out, so you slip her phone out of her hand. _No new messages, no missed calls_. You're suddenly curious, so you unlock the screen to check what she had been doing. There's a text conversation that pops up after you slide the little arrow to the right.

"**Mom, staying the nite at a friends house. not partyin, promise. Luv you, Britt."**

You frown for a moment, and wonder what friend it could be, until you realize the friend is _you_. You suddenly get the feeling that Brittany has her own ways of being super-sneaky, just like Puck. It bothers you that people can manipulate you so easily these days, but then again, you actually like these people so it's ok.

You almost thought _"they're your people, so it's ok",_ but then you realized that she's not your person. She's hardly your friend, but she's also interesting, wacky, and completely intriguing. She doesn't judge people the way others do, and even though she's popular, you heard her say a few nice things about Rachel Berry this evening. _Rachel Berry._ Even _you_ turn your nose up at that girl. Of course, if she turned her nose up at you, it'd whack you in the chin, but still, she's _Berry._

The light in front of you turns green and you place the phone gently back in Brittany's lap, moving your hand softly to her knee before pulling it back up to the steering wheel. She lets out a small noise, still asleep, and you realize that this girl is too much. Too much. She's beautiful, funny, and she makes _those_ noises in her sleep. The Santana Lopez you are so proud of being, sassy, rude, with whorish tendencies, all of this seems to disappear when she's at your side. It's ridiculous, it's unheard of, but for some reason, you like it.


	4. Chapter 4

You wake up on the couch in the living room. Glancing at the clock on the wall, you see that it's a little before nine in the morning. You vaguely remember your Papi passing through the room and throwing the blanket over you that you woke up wrapped in. It's Saturday morning, and you sit up, stretching and wondering why you slept on the couch.

Then, you feel something digging into your thigh, and you reach down. It's your phone, you must have put it down on the couch last night and slept on it. Pressing the button to illuminate the screen, you find that you have and outstanding amount of texts and missed calls. You wonder why Puck called you so much, and then you look down at the tight dress you're still wearing and remember everything.

Dinner. Breadsticks. Brittany. You were supposed to go back to the party but the two of you just drove aimlessly. When she fell asleep you drove home, carried her inside (you had to take off your heels to balance, but you didn't mind), and she woke up. You remember her being a little dizzy and confused about where she was, but you just walked her up the two flights of stairs to your room. You almost changed her bandage again, but she looked too tired so you just went downstairs to watch T.V., your body used to spending all Friday night out at a party with Puck.

Glancing at the phone again, you see you have more than ten missed calls from Puck, and around five messages from early in the night that basically say "Where are you?", but in less delicate terms. There's a text from Mercedes saying she missed you, and a couple from Tina asking you to save her from Mike's football buddies. You roll your eyes when you spot another one from Puck, it was sent about three hours after the earlier ones.

"**quinn and berry showed up, ended up driving me home, so awkward thx for ditchin me ho."**

You laugh out loud at the thought of a heavily intoxicated Puck in the back of some car occupied by the Hobbit and Quinn. It was probably really awkward, because he and Quinn had a thing during the latter part of junior year and it didn't end well (he cheated on her, duh). You find yourself wondering why Berry and Quinn went to both parties together the previous night. The lacrosse one was understandable, the whole team was probably there, but then they stuck together for Azimio's thing? Weird shit.

You think it's strange that She-Dwarf is so chummy with Quinn until you remember Brittany freakin' Pierce is currently asleep in your bed a few floors up, and you won't judge. You wonder for a second if there's something going on between them. _Ha, what a joke._

That thought leads you to wonder if there's something going on between you and Brittany, and jokes are tossed aside. You realized earlier that you had some serious feelings for her. What freaked you out was that they weren't just the "get in your pants, get out of your life" feelings that you've become so accustomed to. Last night at Breadsticks you wanted to genuinely take her out on a date and pay for her food. The glances you were shooting each other all night, were they semi-flirtatious? Sure, you were both sort of just laughing at Puck's antics, but you can't help but imagine a different version of last night, a version sans-Puckerman.

Would the same glances have been shared? Would she even agree to spend time with you alone? She seems to be a genuinely nice person, not a total bitch like the rest of the Cheerios.

Well, Quinn seemed to be okay, and you didn't really interact with the other girls unless you had your tongue down their throat at a party, but they seemed like bitches.

Brittany is different. She's adorable and endearing, as well as _totally_ fit. You won't lie, watching her play soccer is nothing short of extremely enjoyable.

She's light on her feet and her ball control is impeccable, her movements fluid. It probably helps that she dances as coordination is an important part of the game. You know this because you played until middle school, when you finally realized that team sports aren't your thing. People piss you off too much.

Sure, you have to be socially interactive when it comes to sports medicine, but you're more in control. There isn't an obnoxious overweight coach screaming abuse at you as some girl from the next town over tries to kick the hell out of your shins. _Eurgh_.

You slide off the couch and creep quietly up the stairs. You aren't used to there being anyone else asleep in the big house when you're around lately. Your father is waiting to be promoted to head of his department and your mother is doing some sort of medical research. They don't spend much time at home recently.

When you get to your room on the third floor you are met with an already-stirring Brittany. She's sitting up in your bed, yawning, and her hair's a mess as it sticks out at random angles over her bandage. She looks really freakin' adorable. It takes her a little while to notice you, and she looks over at you with a hint of guilt in her eyes. They're half closed from grogginess and what is probably a splitting headache.

You get the sudden urge to run over to her and hug her, but you resist it, opting to walk slowly to the edge of the bed and sit down. There's an ample amount of distance between you two until she slides out from under the covers and over to sit next to you.

Your mind goes completely blank when you realize she isn't wearing any pants and remember the awkward experience that was helping her out of her skinny jeans last night. She could have passed as completely wasted if you hadn't already known that it was a bad brain-rattling and general exhaustion making her act the way she had.

"Hey."

"Hey San, sorry for kinda tricking you last night." So, she _did_ trick you. It bothers you a little bit but you don't have the heart to tell her off.

"I didn't mind, it was a nice drive."

There's a pregnant pause in the conversation, quiet settles over the two of you, and you just listen to the sound of the wind outside. It might snow again soon, perfectly normal for March in Ohio. Your mind wanders as you wonder how they'll fit all the sports practices inside, and how much chaos it'll cause for you next week.

Brittany is the first to break the silence.

"Did you really mean that thing you said last night, San?" Her voice is soft but curious.

You sigh, "Which one, I was talking for like, hours."

"The one about your parents. How can you miss them if they live in the same house as you?"

You wince, you could've sworn that she was asleep when you said that. You wouldn't have said it to someone who was awake, but it was somehow a relief to say it out loud to her supposedly slumbering form.

"I... it's complicated" you finally say, not really wanting to elaborate.

"Trigonometry is complicated but that doesn't stop Mr. Herrmann from trying to explain it to me." She turns to you, and you think she's going to continue but she doesn't. Her metaphor got the point across.

You really don't want to have this conversation with her right now. You don't even talk to Mercedes about things like this. The only time you really open up is when you're drunk and teary and emotional, and then it's usually to Puck. He doesn't judge.

And now you've fucked up because you literally just became acquainted with this girl and you feel like a total moron for letting your angsty-ass feelings slip out, even if you did think she was asleep.

"Let's go eat breakfast." You blurted it out like an idiot and now she's staring back looking a little hurt.

After a few seconds she shrugs and walks over to your closet and opens the double doors. Before you can stop her, she's bent over selecting a pair of sweatpants from a stack on the bottom shelf. If it weren't for the fact that you are a little upset with her, you'd be admiring that fine ass. You learned last night that her panties are red and very, very revealing. It's not that you don't own a couple pairs similar to that, but you generally reserve them for certain occasions, not a random trip to Breadsticks after a school day spent in sweatpants.

You're turned around, arranging some random things on your desk while you wait for her to change. She brushes past you and you simply follow her down the stairs, hands nervously twitching, ready to catch her if she falls. Luckily, she is maintaining her poise today and descends gracefully.

Breakfast is a quiet, awkward affair. Halfway through your bowl of Lucky Charms (your parents only keep them around because they don't know you stopped liking them years ago) you begin to realize how frustrated you are with the situation. It's like a creeping feeling coming out of nowhere, over your shoulders, down your chest, resting finally in your stomach. The feeling is one of uneasiness; it's uncomfortable and looking down into the bowl of cereal, with its misshapen and colorful blobs of marshmallows doesn't help at all. Before you can stop it, your hands are literally shaking clutching the spoon. She's just sitting there pushing her marshmallows around, organizing them by color.

Suddenly, you find yourself infuriated because people aren't supposed to find their way into your life this fast. It took months of Puck following you around and a semi-traumatizing experience at a party for the two of your to become friends. The only reason you and Mercedes get along is that the two of you spend a lot of time sitting around with each other, and you have a similar amount of sass. You have nothing in common with Brittany.

She's carefree, relaxed, and she somehow gets you to abandon all things that you stand for. _Santana Lopez_ doesn't just give up a chance to party after a long-ass week, she doesn't let people sleep in her bed, or even spend time in there unless they're getting it on, and she certainly doesn't let them borrow her favorite jacket no matter how un-stylish it may be. Without realizing it, you've been repeating this sort of mantra in your head since you got up to your room.

You're staring at the spoon in your hands and you hear the sound of clinking stop from across the island counter where the two of you are sitting. Looking up, you see Brittany staring at you with a questioning look in your eyes. You snap.

"It's time for you to leave."

She looks confused and hurt, like you just drop-kicked her cat or told her that the tooth fairy is a lie (an earlier conversation revealed she still believes in _that_, as well as Santa and many other ridiculous nonexistent characters from your childhood).

"I'll go upstairs and grab your stuff and your shoes are by the back door."

The look is still there, but she nods and stands up to look for her shoes. You just sigh and walk up the stairs, feeling immediately like a total bitch.

There goes _that_ friendship.

Twenty minutes later you are sitting in your car watching the door close quickly behind her, the blonde ponytail flashing out of sight. You sigh and put the car in gear, driving towards home.

The tall grey house comes into view but you don't pull into the driveway. All it has to offer is the sort of silence associated with emptiness and two abandoned bowls sitting on the marble counter, reminding you of how shitty of a person you are.

Once you pass your house by, you're on autopilot to the only other place you feel comfortable heading. Realizing that the main occupant of this place might not be too happy with you at the current moment, you shoot him a warning text.

"**Bitter Asshole. I'm five minutes away from your house. Put on pants."**

Deciding that those words will suffice, you throw your phone down into the empty passenger seat. It buzzes but you ignore it because that way you'll have an excuse when you show up at a probably still bitching Puck's house. It's sort of a dump over there, but you feel content whenever you go. The small one-and-a-half-story (Puck has the tiny second floor to himself) house has a feeling of being lived in, it's comforting. The neighborhoods slowly start to get shittier, and you know you're getting close.

Parking on the street and getting out of your car, you pull open the metal gate and walk up the front walk. The concrete is broken and grass grows in between the slabs, you avoid the cracks superstitiously, the same way you have for years. The door in front of you swings open and you are faced with a scowling Puck. He's shivering in the cold and half-shaved, his blue boxers barely concealed by the sagging sweatpants, and he looks like a hot mess.

"Morning, Princess." Your voice is dripping with sarcasm and he rolls his eyes and points a cheap, disposable razor at you.

"You better have a damn good reason for showing up, slut, because I'm still pissed at you."

You know he isn't really that pissed, but you still can't resist laughing at how disheveled he is. Quinn really tore into him when they broke up and she probably spent the whole ride home bitching him out. You're kind of sad you missed it.

"Look, man, I was gonna head straight back to the party but then Brittany and I just started, like, talking. And then she fell asleep but it was super late so I let her crash at my place." The annoyed expression on his face makes way for a devilish grin.

"Ohhh getting' it in with hot concussion chick, eh?" He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and does a few pelvic thrusts for good measure.

"You're disgusting," you say, rolling your eyes, "and I'd keep a careful eye on that razor if I were you, 'afore someone comes and shaves the rat off your head."

He feigns shock and then laughs, turning on his heel and strolling back into his house, sweatpants lower than ever before. You feel the sudden urge to pants him but resist, letting out a sigh before entering the dark interior of the Puckerman residence.

The place is small, with a little mudroom in the front entranceway that leads into the living room. Through there is the dining room, with the kitchen towards the back and the first-floor bedrooms in a hallway to the right. Up some stairs in the hallway is the small second floor that is occupied entirely by Puck. He has a little sister in the eighth grade, but the lack of bad pop music that is generally blasting clues you in to the fact that she isn't home. His parents probably aren't either, since you can't hear the nasally voice of Mrs. Puckerman complaining the way she always does.

Puck goes back into the only bathroom in the house to shave the other side of his face, and he waves a hand at the various breakfast items that are laid out on the table. You already "ate" with Brittany and you feel queasy enough right now anyway, the shitty feeling still hasn't worn off. Moving Puck's discarded textbooks from a wobbly chair, you plop down in a seat and wait for him, staring aimlessly out the window where small snowflakes have begun to blow around in the wind.

The bathroom door opens and out walks Puck looking considerably more put together. He's donned a shirt and pulled up his pants, and he's no longer pouting. This is good because you really don't feel like hearing his sob-story about last night's adventure with Berry and Fabray.

He pulls up a chair in front of you, and sits down in it backwards, straddling the seat with his arms crossed on the top of the back.

"So, Lopez, what the hell is wrong with you? You look like someone just stole your prized pair of red hooker heels." That's _unfair_. He knows how much you care about the heels (they're your secret weapon) and the comparison only makes you feel worse. Fortunately, Puck isn't always the douchebag he makes himself out to be, and opening up to him isn't that hard. The past few years have seen many honest conversations between you two, especially since your parents started working so much.

"Those heels are irreplaceable. I would never let anyone touch them. But no, it's not that, it's sort of about...Brittany?" It sounds like a question coming out of your mouth, even though you meant for it to be a statement.

His lips twitch in a way that shows he understands what you really meant, and he nods for you to continue.

"Well, it's just that I went upstairs to wake her up and at first everything was fine, but then I randomly started panicking. She went to borrow clothes and _I didn't even check out her ass_. And then when we were eating breakfast I like, totally freaked out at her and sort of booted her out."

He looks confused. "Wait, why the fuck did you do that? The two of you were peachy last night at Breadsticks, like totally sappy staring and everything, and now you pitch a Lopez bitch-fit at her? You leaving something out on me Santana?" _Caught_.

You don't want to go into any great detail and he knows this, so you try and keep your explanation as vague as possible.

"Uh, fine. So we were driving around last night, well I was driving, and we were just talking. And I thought she was asleep so I started talking about my parents, y'know, because I just really wanted to talk about that shit out loud, and it was like the perfect opportunity. So I come upstairs this morning and she starts asking me about what I said, and I guess it just freaked me out 'cause I didn't mean to tell her. And then we're sitting there eating breakfast and she's just playing with those _fucking_ marshmallows, like there isn't a problem in the goddam world. And it just_pissed me off_. I don't know, I couldn't even look at her because she was just so fucking happy. It's like some pretty messed up shit has happened to her in the past few days and she doesn't even give a damn."

You're exasperated, slamming your hands on the table and Puck has straightened up in his seat, looking at you with pity in his eyes.

"Well damn San, I'm sorry about that. Seriously though, dude, I went to elementary school and shit with her, she's always been like that. It's not that there isn't any messed up shit in her life, she just doesn't let it get to her. Or at least it never looks like it."

His tone is sincere, and you wonder what he means by "messed up shit". Maybe, just maybe there was more to Brittany, by you hoped not.

The way she was always happy, even though you were finding it infuriating today, was usually soothing. These past few years, sitting behind her in study hall and watching her flirt and giggle with the people around her was somehow relaxing. It was like her presence calmed the room, the things she said made everyone laugh even if she wasn't intending to.

"Look, I think you just need to relax and chill out." Puck says, gesturing upstairs with his hands. Your first thought is that he's trying to get you in bed, but you realize that's ridiculous. A moment later, you realize what he means.

"Moron, I'm not gonna smoke with you at ten o' clock in the morning. That's like, the lamest idea ever." Must he _always_ be such a bro?

"Awww c'mon San it's Saturday morning, just one time! It'll totally help you with the Brittany situation..." He's pleading like a little kid in a toy store. Luckily you don't plan on having children, so the little act fails to work.

"No, Puck, I'm not about to get my wake 'n' bake on with you. And what the hell is your problem? You're in season! They're testing you guys before playoffs this year!"

You weren't supposed to tell anyone that, Will likes to surprise the lacrosse team with his tests by doing them at random times. They always test the varsity sports because everybody likes to get their party on in the Spring season. Puck looks sad because it means that he can't use what is probably a massive stash for the next three weeks.

"Are you serious? Man that freaking sucks. Whatever."

Sucks for _him_. You've got nothing against weed, but you stick to alcohol during the school year because it's slightly less illegal and Will and Emma would kill you if you got busted. Not to mention the fact that it would ruin your chances for a perfect permanent record and you've got a couple schools lined up that wouldn't be too happy about that.

As much as Puck can try, he's not really of any use when it comes to advice on more delicate situations. Sighing, you stand up and pat his shoulder, thanking him for the help and telling him to call you later if he's free. You leave the house and get in your car, pulling out your phone and scrolling through the contacts. Finding the desired name, you hit the call button and hope she picks up.

Sure enough after three rings, your ear is suddenly filled with a whole new level of sass.

"Well well well, if it ain't _Satan_ herself calling me at this indecent hour. Maybe you're trying to explain why your skinny ass wasn't at the party last night, or maybe you just miss my gorgeous face. I'm taken. Quit stalking me."

She and Kurt seriously need to stop with that "Satan" crap and get a better nickname. It only bothers you because it can sometimes be too accurate. Although you do look _damn_ good it red.

"Oh calm your shit, 'Cedes, it's practically noon. You're probably just tired from getting' your mack on with Froggy Lips a.k.a Trouty Mouth (you refuse to call Sam by his real name unless you have to) and I do not want to hear about it. Anyways, your face ain't worth missing, but I really do need to talk. And yes it's about last night so you better listen."

Any normal person would get seriously offended at being called ugly and having her boyfriend's seriously disproportionate lips made fun of, but you and Mercedes are always bickering. It's the friendly sort of course, but to outsiders it sounds brutal.

"Damn girl, now I know you didn't just say _that_ about _my man_," she's laughing through the phone which is a good sign, "now you better tell me who this girl is that kept you from an Azimio party, 'cause she better have been _something else_. That party was poppin'!"

You groan into the receiver because she's already guessed the reason why you called. Mercedes just tells you to "woman up and spit it out" (she's got a touch of feminist diva to her) and you finally answer her.

"Well, it was _something else_, because I didn't even get with her."

"This is it, it's the apocalypse. Jesus, woman, tell me her _name_!" Mercedes seems to be getting impatient, and that impatience is about to make her become obnoxious.

"BrittanyPierce." You spit out the name incredibly quickly, hoping the reception is bad or Mercedes' phone sucks enough for her not to hear you.

Unfortunately the girl has bat-ears, and you're sure she understood you perfectly.

"Damnnnnnn, girl! If I swung that way, I'd get with that in a second! What the hell is your problem?" Yup, she heard you. And she's right, Brittany is quite the catch.

"No come on, 'Cedes, you know she'd never get with me. Anyway, she's different, and that's why I called. I tried to talk to Puck but he's a total moron and I...I don't know what to do." You whispered the last part because Santana Lopez is supposed to be full of confidence, but you feel tiny and insignificant right now.

"Oh hell to the no! You did not screw this up! How is that even possible to do? Brittany Pierce is like, you know, _challenged_. She'll get with _anyone_ if they can talk her into it."

Oh no she didn't.

"She's not like that!" you yell into the phone, slamming your hand on the steering wheel, "she's kind and nice and it was too much and I messed up!" You're trying not to let what she just said about Brittany get to you, but it's just not true, you know it. Mercedes is just like everyone else. You don't know what you mean by "everyone else", because you certainly aren't anything to Brittany, but you look at her differently. Or at least you think so, because nobody sees what you see in her.

"Okay, Imma stop you right there." Mercedes says, and you can practically picture her sticking out her hand in that sassy way she does. "I don't even want to know what the hell you did, but you need to fix this. You need to fix it now. Call her ass up and fix whatever this is, because Santana Lopez I have not seen you like this, not ever. Your ass never gives up, it's obnoxious. You sure as hell better not stop now. End of discussion. I'm going back to sleep."

The line goes dead before you can even say "_But I don't have her number_."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Oh gosh oh gosh it's so short. I'm sorry. It was originally long as hell but then I sliced it because the only good stopping place was About 4,500 words in. Shame. Also I have to do one of these because I haven't yet, and I'm gonna jack the swag of normal-is-for-the-boring (read her storiez) when I do it.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own glee but I do own one hopelessly mangled Dell Inspiron 1525. Fuck those computers. Honestly.

**Oh, and one last (embarrassing) thing:** The hideous amount of mistakes in this story (sometimes I even write from the wrong point-of-view, it's disgusting) are all mine. I don't have a beta, the idea of a beta sort of terrifies me. I make a lot of mistakes and can't stand reading my own work so most of them just end up in there. I'm going to try and eventually go through and edit the chapters but for now, if a word looks like it doesn't belong but sort of sounds like one that does, it's probably meant to be the latter. I swear I'm not this lazy in person, I just do most of my writing at 3am. Thanks!

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><p>One Hour Later<p>

Your phone buzzes in the front seat of your car where you threw it during a fit of frustration fifteen minutes ago. It's a message from an unknown number.

"**Hey Santana, this is Quinn Fabray. I got the text from Puck, here's her number."**

You let out a long sigh of relief when you see that Quinn has forwarded you all of Brittany's contact information. Sure, you may have gotten a pissed-off Puck to lie just a little bit when he said it was so that the trainers could contact Brittany more easily, but hey, _desperate times_.

You glance up from the phone and out of the passenger-side window. You've been parked outside of this house for what seems like forever, even if in reality it has been less than a half-hour. Picking up the phone you tighten your grip and hit the green "call" button. The tone sounds in your ear _once_, _twice_, and _so on_ until it comes to an abrupt stop after the sixth ring. You hear the soft voice and for a second you're convinced she answered the phone, but it's just a misleading answering machine.

"Hey what's up it's Brittany! I can't come to the phone right now or I lost it or Lord Tubbington stole it. One of those! Leave me a message and I'll try and get back to you as soon as possible!"

You hear the first half-second of the _beep_ at the end of the message, but hit the red "end" button before you can make a recording. Even though she wasn't really there, you felt relaxed when you heard Brittany's voice, but the feeling leaves you as you look over to the house again. _Alright Lopez, time to quit being a little bitch and face your problems head-on_. You hop out of the car and walk quickly up to the front door, not wanting to take your time in fear of chickening out and ruining everything again.

As you're ringing the doorbell an irrational thought pops into your head. _Why didn't you bring flowers or something?_

But then you realize that assuming that Brittany is the type of girl that would be won over with cheap flowers is the kind of thinking that got you into this mess in the first place. You shouldn't even be doing this for someone you just met because it isn't normal. You're rude to everyone, especially strangers, and that's just what the two of you are, _strangers_. All of the thoughts that were flooding your head drain out as soon as the door is pulled open. You see a flash of blonde hair and blue eyes, but the hair isn't as shiny and the eyes are slightly dimmer.

You forgot how much Brittany resembled her mother, even though the two of you only met briefly a couple of nights ago and you had been very exhausted and distracted at the time. The older woman looks a little confused but she smiles warmly anyway.

"Santana, right? I remember you from the other night." It appears that she either doesn't know what happened this morning or she's choosing to ignore it.

"Yeah, hey...uh, Mrs. Pierce. I was just wondering if Brittany was in?" You feel like an idiot because it's obvious that she's at home, you literally dropped her off a few hours ago and she seemed too tired to go anywhere. You're glad that you changed out of the dress you were _still_ wearing at Puck's and into some sweats that you had in your trunk, because at least you don't look like a _total _freak. Just a bit of a slob.

"Oh honey, call me Susan," your eyebrow twitches because you realize where Brittany got her middle name, "and she's down in the basement. She came home with quite the headache. You can go see her if you'd like, the door's just through the hall in the kitchen. Although the two of you were only apart for a couple hours."

You blush because she seems to be one of the most genuinely nice people you've ever met. Sure, your mom is great and she loves you, but your sarcasm and snappiness had to come from somewhere, and it seems that Brittany inherited a large portion of her personality from her mother as well.

Nodding, you step awkwardly inside of the house, really looking at it for the first time. It looks nothing like your place, which is dark and empty, with too many rooms and not enough meaningful things to fill them. The only comfortable furniture that can be found in your house is in the TV room or the bedrooms, not even the official "living room" has a squishy couch big enough to stretch out on. This house is totally different.

To your left you can see a front sitting room with a large couch pushed up against the French door leading to the front porch, probably in an effort to keep the cool March air from getting into the house. The room looks comfortable and used and homely. To your right is a door that is probably a small bathroom or a closet. The stairs start a few feet past that and past those is a long hallway that leads to the kitchen. Part of the hallway opens up just before the kitchen into a small room that doesn't have a real door.

There's a desk with a couple of computers set up and a large printer sits on one end. It's a miniature office and while the placement is odd, it seems just as quirky as these two women. You walk awkwardly into the warm kitchen and nod at Susan who is gesturing towards a slightly open door in the far right corner near the fridge.

Your heart is beating fast and you swallow thickly before slowly descending the steep stairs into the dimly lit basement that Brittany currently occupies. When you get down, the scene that greets you isn't what you expected.

You spent a brief amount of time in Brittany's room on Friday night, and it looked nothing like this. Her room was painted a soft yellow and had cheerleading things all over it. It was what you would usually consider "disgustingly girly", except for the few odd touches like the slightly creepy Kid Robot figurines and the cool posters from what seemed to be dance conventions.

This place is totally different. The walls, for starters, are dark grey, with similarly-painted thin pillars holding up the ceiling. About ten feet in front of the stairs is a huge black couch with a coffee table standing in between it and the massive flat-screen TV that sits between two shelves full of cases. You can't help but grin when you see a pair of socked feet hanging over the right side of the couch, and even though you can't see the rest of her body, you somehow know its Brittany. She's probably sleeping, so she most-likely doesn't realize your presence, and you take the opportunity to get a better look at some of the things in the room.

The shelves on either side of the TV appear to be full of DVDs, but closer inspection yields a large section taken up by videogames meant for different platforms and there's a whole two shelves at the bottom of the one on the right that seem to contain nothing but VHS tapes with words scrawled in sharpie on their otherwise blank labels. You see a stack of open discs on the coffee table, the large DVD case is covered in bright colors.

On the television screen is some soccer game that looks like it's not from this decade judging from the hairstyles of the players. You suddenly realize that Brittany is a lot more obsessed with soccer than the average high school girl's player. The grey walls aren't blank, they're covered in a countless number of framed posters from different teams to vintage World-Cup promotions. "La Coupe du Monde" pops out at you and you realize one of them is even in French. She's a fanatic.

There's a foosball table in the back corner near a set of (impressively sized) weights and a mini-fridge. A closet door is shut but on it is taped a red and yellow poster that clearly shows the Manchester United season schedule from the past year, taped up in a loving way. There's table with a desk lamp and some neat stacks of paper, but most of its surface is taken up by trophies with little people kicking little balls on top of them.

You feel a random surge of pride flow through you, and you can't help but feel that it's totally inappropriate. Looking at the wall above the desk you see something you hadn't noticed earlier. What lies inside the frame, cast half in shadow, is not a poster but a jersey. The shirt is neatly spread out under the frame. The name on it is "Pierce" and the number is 10, but it sure as hell isn't Brittany's.

You can tell that the jersey is old, it has long sleeves and a collar, and has probably been around longer than you have. It's plain, with no team insignia and you wonder who it belonged to. Just as you are walking over to get a closer look, you hear a familiar voice.

"What are you doing here?"

It's cold and emotionless and so shocking that you jump half a foot in the air before wondering the same thing. What _are_ you doing here?

Well, the reason is obvious, you came to apologize, but you really didn't have to come here. You could have just left her a voicemail message, it's what you usually do when apologizing to people, something that doesn't happen too often. You prefer to distance yourself from those people, not usually having the nerve to say "I'm sorry" in person.

But here you are standing in the basement of Brittany S. Pierce, who seems to have woken up on the couch and is most-likely glaring at the back of your head. You're still facing away from her but you can feel the gaze.

You cough awkwardly and turn slowly, but she isn't glaring. She's just staring intensely, her blue eyes boring into you like laser beams. She's wrapped in a white blanket and her hand clutches her head. Her jaw is clenched even though it's probably a painful action, and you suspect she's only doing it to keep up the appearance of being pissed off at you, because nobody who is pissed off and has a headache does anything to make the headache worse.

"I came to apologize. I don't do this often, so feel lucky, but I'm sorry. I'm not sure if you could tell, but I don't really have a particular fondness for other people, and I don't usually talk about my parents. It was sort of a shock to have someone around this morning. And, uh, I thought you were asleep when I mentioned them last night. And seriously Brittany, I hardly know you and we didn't even really properly meet. I guess it was just too much. "

You're relieved when you re-play your words in your head and realize that they aren't particularly bitter or rude, just relatively honest. You don't like lying, but you also don't have particular fondness for telling the complete truth, and it's a really nice to see that you could manage to say something that open.

Sure, you left out the bit concerning the fact that you think she's beautiful and not just the usual "hot" that consider other attractive girls to be. You leave out the fact that she brought a genuine smile to your lips last night, and the fact that talking to her was so damn easy that you didn't choke on words that weren't insults. You left out the fact that she isn't like everyone else and she constantly surprises you.

And then, she does just that.

"Let's fix that then." She's smiling a little, it's more of a grimace because her eyes are squinted from the obvious pounding in her heat, but it's genuine and it leaves your heart thumping.

"Hi. My name is Brittany S. Pierce, seventeen years old, birthday May first. Hmm, things I like...dancing above everything, well, maybe about as much as soccer. I really love soccer too." She's gesturing around the room and the décor does a good job of proving her point. "I also love ducks, unicorns, and cats. One cat in particular that I really love is Lord Tubbington. He's my best friend other than Quinn; she's cooler and less rude and doesn't take my things. She's also prettier but don't tell her I said that because one time I tried to kiss her when we were drunk and she ran away."

You stiffen and snap to attention at this bit of information, because the thought of Brittany kissing another girl is almost too much.

Images are already flooding your head involving Quinn Fabray and Brittany, and it may just be the hottest thing you've ever imagined. You literally have to force yourself to recall the image of Berry hooking up with her lardass of a boyfriend in the equipment closet last week in order to cool off. That particular experience gave you nightmares and the creeped-out shivers that run down your spine inform you that you are officially cooled off. Practically Antarctica.

You focus your attention back to Brittany, who is just sitting there on the couch waiting for you to reply. You're still standing awkwardly in the corner of the room with the desk behind you. She doesn't seem to be in any state to mobilize herself quickly and it's the perfect time for you to escape, the stairs are only a few feet away.

While this situation screams "Awkward", and everything you stand for is telling you to practice avoidance as usual and get the hell out of there, something deep down is screaming at you to stay.

Resigning yourself to what is probably a horrible idea, you make your way over to where she is and sit down on the carpet near her legs, leaning your back against the couch. This way, you don't have to look at her but you're still close enough. It makes talking easier, and the old game on the TV is a good excuse.

You realize that you used driving the car in the same way the night before, and that plan went to shit, but you're too tired to think of something else and you can't deal with the intimacy of direct eye contact.

Turning to her for as little time as possible, you return the introduction. "Santana Lopez. Eighteen years old." You whip your head back to the TV but continue talking, humoring her.

"Things I like? Women (you let out a dry chuckle when you can hear her squirm from where she sits behind you). I also enjoy drinking, listening to music, running, and sex (she squirms again and you smirk). Friends? Puckerman's at the top of that list, just an example of how sad my life is." Sarcasm has always been your strong suit. "Sometimes I hang out with Mercedes Jones, and Fairy Boy Kurt Hummel tags along. I tolerate some others, but people suck, y'know? Particularly Rachel Berry. She's especially obnoxious."

Brittany sighs softly when you finish, and she shifts again. You can feel a stronger dip in the cushion that you're resting your neck on. It's your turn to become flustered at the proximity, even if it is just her feet that are close to your head. Her next words surprise you because it's almost as if she ignored the entire first part of your little introduction. You would have thought that if it hadn't been for the squirming. She _had_ to have been listening.

"Rachel's not that bad. Sometimes she's in the car when Quinn drops me off places. She's nice. She talks a lot, though, too fast and I don't understand her."

You frown because Jew-Princess is a weirdo and doesn't deserve to hang out with Brittany. Also her weird relationship with Fabray is freaking you out. Cheerios don't usually hang out with losers, but then again, you're kind of a loser and here you are in Brittany's basement. The juxtaposition pisses you off.

"That's probably because she was speaking Hebrew, Brittany. Ignore her at all costs."

It's Brittany who frowns this time, but she ignores your brilliantly thought-out rude comment and sighs again before continuing.

"You know San, all of your facts were sort of depressing. Well, mostly just the drinking part and the not having friends. And the sex a little too (she clears her throat awkwardly). That's supposed to be something everybody likes, it's not a hobby."

It's a hobby for you. Puckerman would agree with you but then again, the two of you don't lead the healthiest of lifestyles.

"It's good that you like running, though. I never liked running. It's too boring for me and I always get distracted and chase something or just stop to stare at the moss between the sidewalk cracks. And it's good that you like women...uh, well, I mean that it's good that you're fine with the fact that you like women. Women are pretty cool." She clears her throat again, this time it's even more awkward.

You realize that the things this girl says never fail to surprise you. It's as if she has no filter, and it kind of reminds you of yourself as a little kid. Brittany just never grew up.

"Brittany, I wonder what would happen if I taped your mouth shut for two days and then peeled it off and waited to see what type of random shit would flow out." You actually have thought about this before, but it's a ridiculous idea, "And those things are normal for me. I enjoy women, and therefore I enjoy sex with them. Drinking leads to sex, so drinking is obviously a good thing in my book."

You aren't usually this forward with people, especially about subjects like sex. The only person you come close to talking about this stuff with is Puck, and then you use terms like "ladies" or "getting my mack on" because saying things like "women" or "sex" doesn't feel quite right.

It's something even _you_ haven't come to terms with yet, but it looks like Brittany brings out the best (and worst) in you. She seems to be at the wheel of a figurative bulldozer trying to break down your walls. You are finding this incredibly unsettling, but at the same time, a small flicker of comfort lingers. You feel the couch shift yet again, and manage to turn around to look at her.

She's sitting with her legs to her chest, ankles crossed, elbows propped up on her knees with her face resting in her palms. Stormy blue eyes are staring at you intensely without the flicker of fear you have been known to cast. She doesn't seem uncomfortable with what you've been saying, just genuinely concerned.

Nobody is ever genuinely concerned about you. Puck may seem like it and he tried hard as hell, but in the end all of his allegiances lie with himself. Your other friends from school are too busy trying to dump their problems on you to let you get a word in edgewise about yourself. Even Mercedes was short with you on the phone today.

But Brittany, once again, is different. She's just letting you say all these things and only raising points that genuinely concern her. You were a total bitch to her this morning but she still let you into her house and into her sacred little soccer shrine of a basement. Now she's just sitting there, letting you knock holes in your carefully built walls as if something inside you is struggling to get out and embrace her.

_Embrace her_. You have the sudden urge to do just that, but it's totally inappropriate. Even if she may have just admitted that she's open to kissing girls (in a super-awkward way, though), you did just go into detail about how much you enjoy sex with women and she has every right to be uncomfortable.

But still, she's sitting right there and she somehow still looks tired and you're exhausted. Now that the two of you have been properly introduced, all you want to do is stand up and wrap your arms around her and fall asleep on that couch. It looks really comfy and if the cushion against your neck is any indication, it totally is.

You resist the urge by once again returning you gaze to the television. Something about the look in her eyes is making you feel guilty because you should have treated her right all along.

Things had gotten off to a great start but this morning was sort of an undeniable fuck-up and the two of you are barely past that. You don't even know why you're considering the "past that" thing, because that indicates a blooming friendship and you aren't even sure if that's what you deserve.

On one hand, you just want things to go back to the way they were with you pining for her and her blissfully unaware of your existence. If that was the case, you would have probably spent this morning sleeping off a hangover from Z's and woken up in the afternoon. Then, you could have gone to Puck's and wasted time before hitting up another party. Sunday would have been spent doing homework and exercising, and it's a routine that you've come to appreciate.

But on the other hand, this is a bit of a welcome change. You're up before noon without the hangover, and you've made a new "friend". If it hadn't been for your rookie mistakes this morning, the two of you could have continued hitting it off and you would have probably ended up in this basement anyway. You would have been content with turning off your phone and spending the entire day down here, even if it meant missing out on two parties in a row.

You can feel the couch shift once again, and instead of stiffening you just lean back and relax, letting your head and neck sink into the cushion.

You close your eyes because you can sense Brittany's closeness. Over the course of the conversation she has shifted herself completely on the couch, and now her feet are at the opposite end, her head unnervingly close to yours. You can just barely feel her breath on your left ear, but it's making your heart flutter.

The two of you just stay there like that until her voice eventually interrupts the hum of the game on TV.

"I like you, Santana, even if _you_ don't like you."

And just like that, it's settled. There's no turning back for you anymore. She's reading you like a picture book, all the thoughts that you have been having today have just been pretty much summed up. You walk through life every day with your head held high, talking a big game and acting like you're hot shit, but all day the only thing you could think about were your flaws and how she'd never understand them. But she _does_ understand them. People like your friends call her stupid behind her back every day, but she's realized something about you that they haven't, that you haven't. And it just shows how brilliant she is.

You turn your head to the left, towards the breathing that you could barely feel against your skin. You hesitate a little, but open your eyes because you just want to look at her.

_Calm_. It's the first thing you can think when you see her eyes. The storm that was raging in them a few minutes ago seems to have dissipated, and the grey hue has been replaced but cool blue once again. Her face is a little less than a foot away from yours. The thin yet gorgeous lips are curled up into a soft smile that causes her lightly freckled nose to wrinkle just a little bit. Her pale skin is glowing a little in the half-light of the basement, and something about her just seems sort of magical.

You choose to ignore the bandage on her forehead because it's not really a part of her, just a reminder of the last two days. Those are days that seem to have gone on for ages, but could have been forever ago for all you care. You're lost in this moment of comfort, her words have soothed you so effortlessly.

"I like you too, Brittany Susan Pierce. And I think you just might be the cleverest person I've ever met."

It's without a doubt the nicest thing that you've said to anyone in as long as you can remember, and you can tell she appreciates it. She giggles softly and closes her eyes for a moment, sighing deeply. You're so close that you can feel the air that she releases and it's somehow incredibly relaxing.

You don't think this moment could get any better, but it does. She opens her eyes again and leans towards you.

You freeze, of course, thoughts are running through your brain at light-speed because you just got back on friendly terms and you really don't want to fuck this up.

Your thoughts turn to mush as soon as you feel her soft lips on your..._oh thank goodness_, forehead. They linger there for a few moments right above the space between your eyebrows, and it's like a shockwave radiates from that place. A warm feeling spreads through your body, resting in the pit of your stomach.

And just as soon as it arrived, the feeling is gone, but the sense of closeness stays when she keeps her face close to yours, your noses bumping because she's _laughing so hard_, and it sounds like music. The laughter, of course, is because a team has just scored in the all but forgotten soccer match.

"They're cheering for us, you know."

"That's ridiculous, Britt, that games from almost fifteen years ago."

"Just pretend, San, it's so easy."

And it is, so you close your eyes and listen to the sound of her breathing and the fans cheering and it's incredible. When the sound on the TV fades a soft, calm voice begins to recap a game between two teams you've never heard of.

"_Dad_." She whispers it, and you can hear the smile in her voice.

Before you can even begin to think about questioning it, even in your head, exhaustion from the past few hours creeps up and takes you off into a deep sleep, washing away any worries that remained.

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><p><strong>Authoritively (not a real word) Noted: Again, the shortness is sad but I'll upload again soon as I can work out this computer bullshit and write Chapter Seven in a vain attempt at getting ahead for once in my life. Doubtful.<strong>

**Midterms went well if anybody was wondering. I'm sure you weren't but hey,** **AP Exams are slowly approaching so we've got even more to look forward to in the future. So is SPRING SEASON aka the time where I get to be outside for AT-ing instead of being stuck inside because it's super cold and gets dark at four-thirty. Well, that's not totally true because it got dark at five and hit fifty-one degrees yesterday here in the good ol' Windy City. But still, I'll probably start to integrate more sporting events in as the pace picks up a little and I actually remember what March is like. Yay!**

**Review because it makes me happy and nobody likes slackers. Well, except Puck. We tolerate him most of the time. **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: New. Chapter. Fun. Enjoy. Pardon the Delay**.

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><p>You had woken up on Brittany's couch alone in the dark. Looking around, the basement was sort of creepy when Brittany wasn't there.<p>

After a minute or so of worry, you had found her upstairs eating a late lunch. She told you she was expecting Quinn because they always hung out on Saturdays. She wanted you to stay but you felt awkward around the other blonde because she was far more intimidating than Brittany and you didn't want to interrupt their time spent together. You got the feeling that Quinn probably wouldn't trust you if you were there when she showed up, especially if Brittany had told her about that morning.

You were almost out the door when you felt her arms wrap around you from behind, just like they had on Friday. The feeling had sent tingles shooting through your spine, all the way down to your toes. You had barely recovered from the pleasant shock when she mumbled a quick goodbye into your shoulder and you told her to take it easy and have a nice time with Quinn.

It was obvious to you that she didn't bear any ill notions towards you after the morning's disaster, and that was amazing.

Just thinking about it had you dancing in your seat the entire way home.

Puck called when you were in the shower asking if you could give him and Sam Evans a lift to the party you guys were hitting up that night. You had totally forgotten about the party while you were with Brittany, a trend you were starting to notice. You were reluctant to even go after the long day, especially since giving Sam a ride meant that Mercedes wasn't going, or she'd have been driving him. It wasn't like you wanted to thank her for helping you this morning, that wasn't your style, but you would have appreciated her presence.

Puck and Sam were always getting rides from you, and you could never stand to turn them away. Neither of them was very well-off, and they both only had access to cars when their respective fathers didn't need their trucks for work. This wasn't very often. You had picked them up at Puck's house where they were pre-gaming (you found this notion stupid, if you're going to get smashed at a party for free, why drink your own alcohol before-hand?).

Stuck being the designated driver meant you probably had no chance of getting any action. It was Karafosky's party anyways, and those had the general reputation of being sausagefests. Gross.

Hours and a narrowly-avoided fistfight between Puck and some baseball moron later, you were driving the two guys down the dark, quiet streets of Lima Heights. Of course, they were plastered and singing as loud as possible to the classic rock station that you had on (you had heard enough top-40's at the part to last you a decade or two). Puck could hold a tune while drunk but Sam sounded like a woman and it was a relief to finally book their drunk asses out of the vehicle. Turning the radio off you sat for a moment, enjoying the peace and quiet before you drove off towards the direction of home, where your parents had probably arrived around an hour earlier. It was just midnight and you were glad to be back relatively early, even if it was only because you had gotten kicked out.

Saturday nights had been the highlight of your social life early on in the year, but starting in the winter you had begun to fin the parties exhausting. You always had to put in extra effort if you wanted to have as much fun as everyone else and get actual hookups, and the motivation just hadn't been there of late.

It wasn't like you had lost your touch or anything, but trying to get with the same girls over and over again did get old. Your mind flashed back to Brittany, it had been doing that a lot in the past few days. You wondered why you never saw her at those parties. Sure, she had been in a relationship with that chess-club kid but it hadn't lasted that long (not that you stalked her Facebook every week or anything). All the cheerleaders went to parties without their boyfriends, most cheated shamelessly, it wasn't really an issue. But digging through your half-there memories of the drunken nights, you could only pick out a handful of times you had spotted Brittany at parties.

Rounding a corner near your house with these thoughts still fresh in your head, you could swear that exhaustion was playing tricks on you. Your eyes were telling you that Brittany Pierce was walking down the sidewalk alone at this ungodly hour, but you brain didn't want you to believe it.

When she recognized your car and began waving happily at you, your brain had to start believing. You reached over and cranked down the window as fast as you could.

"Brittany! What the hell are you doing out here?"

She walked over to your car and leaned in on the now windowless passenger door, smiling bashfully.

"Hey San. You're not gonna believe what happened! I went to go let out my cat because he wanted to see his hot kitty-girlfriend from up the street. But then I forgot why I was outside, so I closed the door and got locked out. I was about to ring the doorbell but then I finally remembered why I was outside, and I that my mom went to sleep. And you live really close so I decided to find your house, but the past few days everything has been a little foggy because of hitting my head, right? So I forgot where your house was but now you're here so it's all good, yeah!"

She finished her story and propped her face up on her elbows, still leaning into your car, a lazy smile across her features. You could see the goose bumps on her neck from where her light jacket didn't cover the skin. It was really cold outside, the snow from earlier had melted, but the temperature drop had turned the excess moisture to sleek ice. You sighed, glad that she was all right and couldn't have been out for very long as the cold had not affected her too much.

"Get in."

You reached over again and unlocked the passenger door, and she giggled out a "Thank you", sliding ever-gracefully into the passenger seat. You watched as she delighted in cranking up the window while shaking your head at the thought of someone actually appreciating the horrible archaic technology of your car. After finishing with the window, she spent the rest of the drive fiddling with the radio-dial and giggling whenever she found a station in Spanish. It shouldn't have been amusing to you, especially since her antics were much more impulsive than either Puck or Sam's had been, and you had yelled at them the whole way back, but you found yourself chuckling lightly.

As you pulled into your driveway, Brittany made a box with her fingers, framing your house and squinting. For the second time that night, you asked her what she was doing. Her reply didn't surprise you.

"I'm taking a mental picture, so I'll never forget where you live again. That way it'll be much easier to find next time I'm looking for you!"

She put her hands down and pushed your arm on her way to unbuckle her seatbelt. She followed you into the dark house, mimicking your motions to be as quiet as possible. Of course she was much more graceful, you ran into things in the darkness while she deftly avoided them. Sidestepping a kitchen stool you crept up the stairs to your room on the third floor, opening the door and motioning her past you before closing it as softly as you could.

Your parents knew you were out, curfew was never really a thing you guys had established, but they were light sleepers. You knew that waking up your mom or dad would piss them off so your frequent late-night returns from parties had trained you into an expert at sneaking in and out of places.

Brittany was standing in front of your mirror inspecting her bandage carefully and flattening her blonde bangs in an attempt to cover it up. It was cute, the way she wanted to look good even though she was once again in sweats and it was more morning that night. You crossed the room and put your hands on her shoulders, your stronger side kicking in, finally.

"Hey, Britt, it's like one-am, time for you to go to bed. C'mon"

You started gently pulling her over to the bed and she flopped down on it, but grabbed onto your arm as you began to move away from her. You turned around.

"I slept all day, San. I'm not even tired right now and I'm not even dizzy. Let's talk like last night! We were gonna play the question game, remember?"

You did remember because she had pestered you constantly and you had shot her down, relieved when she fell asleep. You realized that you weren't tired either, and that the game might actually be fun when not being played with someone like Puck, who usually just spat out disgusting or uncomfortable questions to try and get a rise out of you.

"Fine, but then we're going to get some damn sleep."

She grinned at you and scooted over on the bed, patting the space beside her. It was the side you usually slept on anyways so you lay down, stretching your arms above your head, careful not to let the tight party dress you were wearing ride up all over the place.

"Favorite Disney movie, go!" It wasn't really a question, but that was how the game worked, it was a way for new friends to get to know each other and old friends to get a laugh.

"Mulan, she was badass, and the dragon always reminds me of Mercedes. You?"

"Cliché, San. Lady and the Tramp. I've always wanted to do the meatball thing but my dates refuse and my cat is allergic to pasta sauce."

You let that one slide because her adorable answer made up for the fact that she totally dissed the (un-cliché in your opinion) best Disney movie of all time. Although the sequel lacked substance, probably because she ended up with the guy. It was your turn to ask a question, and your head spun trying to come up with a good one.

"Cheerios or Soccer?"

"That's hard. Soccer because I can do whatever I want. But I like just dancing more than either, not the Cheerios kind but the kind where you have real recitals and companies and there's no Coach Sylvester or social pressure. It has more freedom. Ham or baloney?"

"Ham, less processed. You?"

"Baloney, I like biting holes and making a mask" _Gross_.

"Favorite season?"

"Summer because I don't have to wear real clothes or take exams. And I get to go on adventures. You?"

"Fall. I like the weather and it has better sports. The leaves are nice, too."

"It's cute that you like sports, San. Favorite book?"

"I Am the Messenger. Or anything by Zusak, really."

"I read that last year, it made me want to drive a taxi and go on mysterious missions. Hmm...first impression?"

You gulped, not expecting that one in the least. Her response to your liking sports had already thrown you slightly off but you thought her next question would be just as playful as her first two. Keeping your gaze locked on the ceiling, you wracked your brain for the memory of that first day of school years back. Picturing it, you opened your mouth and said what immediately came to mind.

"Sweet. I thought you were sweet, or maybe kind. The first time I remember seeing you was in study hall, it was a while ago. You'd get yelled at every day because you would always talk to Becky Jackson. The monitor thought you were making fun of her but I always sat really close and I could hear you, and you only said nice things even though you sometimes copied her Spanish homework. I was a lot more of a bitch back then and at the time, I couldn't imagine why anybody would take the time to talk to her. But you did, and you always listened really carefully to what she said. Not to sound creepy or anything, I just always noticed it."

"W-wow, San, that's like the nicest thing someone's ever said to me! Becky Jackson is super cool, by the way, and she's really good at Spanish."

You felt her shift on the bed and you finally chanced a look over to your left. She was lying on her side now, turned toward you. Her bangs were falling in her eyes and her bottom lip was tucked lightly between her teeth. You felt a sudden urge to kiss it free, and you had to snap your vision back up to the darkened ceiling in order to contain yourself. You needed to break the silence.

"What was yours, Britt. Y'know, your first impression of _me_?" It was her turn to ask a question but you were really, really curious, and wasn't that the whole purpose of this game?

She hummed to herself for a moment, as if she was a judge, carefully deliberating. You could feel the bed move as she propped herself up and cupped a hand to your ear.

"Brave", she whispered, as if it was so top-secret that even saying it quietly in the silent house was a bad idea.

"Ha!" you practically snorted, "I really wasn't being that brave, Brittany. It's kind of my job to pick bleeding people up off playing fields."

You turned towards her, expecting a blush or something, but her face showed entirely different emotions. First she looked hurt, but then she began to giggle.

"You think I made my first impression of you on Thursday? Santana, that day only proved what I thought. I made my first impression, oh, it must have been freshman year. Remember when you slapped Finn Hudson? I do. It was at the bus stop back before anyone had their own car. He was making fun of you because you always rejected all of the guys that asked you out and you never had a boyfriend. Everyone was laughing but I didn't think it was funny because Quinn was with me, and she looked really pissed off. I didn't even know your name, but you were just standing there taking his abuse, but then he started to call you something and you slapped him before he could finish. He was really big especially because we were like, fifteen, and you're so small, but he ran away super fast. Nobody messed with you after that."

You were shocked, your mouth opening and closing but no words coming out. Your memory of that day was distinct, it was the first time you had ever thought seriously about your sexuality, but you didn't remember seeing Brittany or Quinn for that matter. In fact, the whole crowd was sort of a blur, with just Hudson and your rage in focus. You thought Brittany was done, but she continued talking.

"And then it happened again. I'm sure you remember. It was sophomore year this time, at a party at a senior's house. It was spring. I still didn't know your name but I never forgot your face, especially because you're so beautiful and you have really nice lips. I was only there because I was on Cheerios and now that I know you, I'll guess you were there with Puck. I was dancing with Quinn because she told me that we were supposed to tease and not please, and I remember something that happened close to us. There was this short, pretty girl who was dancing with this really big guy. And he had his hands all over her. And then he tried to kiss the girl, but she pushed him away. And that's when I realized it was you, the same one who slapped Finn, because you had the same terrified look in your eyes, but the rest of your face was like stone."

You sucked in a breath at the terrible memory, wincing because you knew what was coming next.

"And then something happened, Santana, something totally unfair. He was yelling at you, calling you names. He called you a lesbian, and I didn't know why because I thought you were Hispanic, but Quinn told me later that it was different than Lebanese. I remember Puck jumped out of nowhere in between you, and the big guy was about to punch him, but you stopped his fist. You stood there, San, and you stopped his fist. And then you told him it was true. In front of the whole party. Everybody was quiet then, and I could hear Quinn gasp and I was confused. The big guy looked angry, Puck looked concerned, and everyone else just looked shocked, but I remember how you looked. You looked brave, Santana. Braver than anyone else."

You couldn't breathe. You hadn't felt brave that day. It was the worst day of your life. It was the day that everything changed because after you came out awkwardly in front of a party full of McKinley's most-popular, everything just got harder. It was no longer just Puck and your parents who knew, but the whole school. Being outed wasn't the issue, really, it was the way the guys reacted to it. They were furious that someone so attractive (it was the opposite of flattery, really) wasn't the least bit interested in them.

They didn't think it was fair, but who were they to decide what was and wasn't? They held no power other than the ability to cause physical and emotional pain, the ability to make you hate them, they couldn't change you. The memory was so painful, but the way Brittany had described it was changing the way you looked at yourself. She was just an onlooker, observing your life from the edges, completely unnoticed by you. But the role she played was vital. She walked through life with an entirely different view of the world. She saw good in people where anyone else would see things bad enough to make them run.

You broke down, your body still turned towards hers, and she wrapped her arms around you, holding you tightly. You didn't feel like you could ever calm down, because even thought things were better now than they had been before, that year and junior year had been like a war.

Knowing that she had memories of you from years ago made you feel suddenly closer to Brittany. You convinced yourself that all that time made up for the fact that this was happening after only three days, and you let yourself sob into her shoulder. You cried until you were too tired to keep going, and then you just lay there, breathing heavily as she rubbed circles on your lower back.

"I'm sorry that I ruined the game." You could feel her breath on your ear as she whispered, the warmth of the words flowing through your body. You shook your head slightly, trying to show her that she wasn't at fault.

"You didn't ruin the game. Britt _that_ was the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. It was the most truthful thing I've ever heard a person say."

You were serious. Brittany didn't always have a way with words, but just then, she had become a powerful speaker. Without all the usual silliness that came with her speeches, her words were raw and powerful, and utterly sincere. It had hurt badly to remember those two days, but after what she had said, you would never remember them the same way, never again. Before, you had seen yourself as the pitiful scapegoat of two different guys that had been scorned by rejection, someone to be laughed at by a crowd.

Now, you saw yourself as the hero of those days, as someone who had experienced the slightest bit of victory amidst the shit storm that had taken place. Brittany pulled away from you, smiling, her eyes bright.

"Look at you, San, your walls are gone. It's amazing! Oh, and I like it when you call me Britt."

"I look like crap," you croaked, and upon hearing your voice you added "and I sound like a frog, a dying frog."

She just laughed, brushing some hair out of her face.

"If you're the frog, then can I be a Princess?"

You groaned, of course she would connect those two things, it was Brittany.

"Britt, this isn't a fairytale. This is my shitty life story that you have somehow managed to turn around to make me look like a hero."

She frowned at first, but then looked up, and grabbed onto your shoulders, causing you to tense up.

"But San, if I was the Princess then I would have a really awesome excuse to do this."

And with that said, you froze completely as she tightened her grip and pressed her lips to yours.

.

.

_Soft_. It was the first thing you could think after your brain recovered from the initial wave of shock you were experiencing. Then, synapses fired and sent the message to your lips, telling them to react, and they finally did. You kissed back as softly as you could, her lips tasted like two different flavors of Lipsmackers, but you couldn't figure out which ones. She slipped one of her hands from your shoulder, sliding it down to cup your waist. You wanted to push yourself closer to her, but she pulled away after only a few seconds.

It was over just as suddenly as it had began, and you had to stifle a moan at the loss of contact. It was easily the sweetest, most sensual kiss you had ever shared with another girl, with anyone really. All the admiration, that was the word to describe it, that you had been feeling for Brittany over the past few days became overwhelming.

You looked at her, the two of you were still so close that you could only see her crystal blue eyes, but the way they were twinkling told you that she had a smile on her face.

"I've wanted to do that since Friday at my house, well, really since that day at the bus stop in ninth grade because I thought it would make you stop frowning but Quinn told me that was a seriously bad idea."

You let out a weak little laugh at her confession- it would have been a really bad idea, although she was right, you could've used it. You weren't surprised that Brittany got away with saying things about wanting to kiss whoever looked sad, no matter their gender, because she was just..Brittany. You rolled over onto your back, suddenly feeling the full effects of the long night on your level of exhaustion.

"Brittany, I hate to be the one to ruin the game, but I'm really tired so-"

"Don't worry, San, all that happiness wore me out too."

She smiled and gave you a little shove, so you slid carefully off of the bed and shimmied out of your dress, grabbing a large football t-shirt to wear. You could feel her eyes on you the whole time, but she wasn't leering. She was just making sure you were O.K. and making sure you didn't leave. And you didn't want to disappoint her.

Climbing back into bed with Brittany was the most incredibly calming feeling, and you let her wrap her arms around you as the two of you drifted off into a peaceful sleep for the second time in less than a day.

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><p><strong>No real Author's Note because I'm already late for class! Favorite and Review! Thanks for reading!<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Time for an update. I despise this chapter and all of it's heinous filler-dom. It's rather short but that was slightly necessary. You'll see. Happy President's Day to those of you in the US and enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Monday.<strong>

You roll back in your chair, letting out a satisfied sigh when you both feel and hear the pops as the tension in your back is released. The crazy teacher at the front of the room is gesturing wildly around and trying to prove some no-doubt irrelevant point connecting your teenage lives to the life of young Macbeth. You don't care, you aren't actually listening to a word she says while you idly drew inappropriate sketches of Quinn and Rachel Berry on your desk, something you haven't done since your bitchy stage sophomore year. Old habits die hard.

Just then, the bell rings, signaling the end of eighth period. You gather your things as your English teacher tries in vain to get everyone's attention, shouting about some writing contest over the noise of rustling papers and loud chatter. You take your time and end up being the last to leave the room, but you aren't in a rush because you have Mondays off and not a thing to do.

You shoot a disapproving look at a couple of freshmen that are holding hands in front of you and walking too damn slowly as you push past them and around a corner towards the staircase that would aide in your escape from the school. Finally.

Most weeks, Mondays feels to you like it drags on forever at an agonizingly slow pace. It's mostly because you never put in hours at training on Mondays and you've begun to actually look forward to the feeling of freedom that contrasts the one of imprisonment generally associated with the beginning of the school-week.

This Monday feels different, especially after how your weekend went. You hadn't meant to end up spending almost the entire time with Brittany, but that's how it had gone down. Quinn had woken you up on Sunday morning when she called to ask if you'd seen Britt because her mother didn't know where she was. She told you that you were her last resort on her search and she was relieved when you had looked over to the sleeping girl next to you and informed her that she was in fact in your company.

You smile as you remember the way her eyes had fluttered open and met yours, the way she held her bottom lip between her teeth as you attempted to reassure Quinn, a guilty-yet-devious smile playing across her pale features. It was maybe the single sexiest thing you'd ever seen, despite the fact that Quinn must have been screaming into the receiver on the other end of the phone you clutched to your hear. At that point, you had grown impatient and told Quinn to kindly "calm her tits" before hanging up and laughing your ass off.

You hear Brittany's sweet, tinkling laugh and you almost think that you're daydreaming until you spot her walking out of a classroom at the end of the hall near the back exit and the doors to the Gym Wing. She's accompanied by her shorter best friend who is fixing her ever-present ponytail and rolling her eyes. Suddenly, Brittany turns around, and when she spots you she begins waving and walking towards you in the opposite direction that Quinn is headed.

"B, c'mon, let's go before I'm late for prac-" She stops talking around the same time that Brittany launches herself into your arms, effectively tackle-hugging you.

"Saannntaanaa! I didn't see you all day because I was too tired to come to school today in time for lunch!"

You (luckily) caught her body in your arms and you groan as you put her down, half because she's much bigger than you and half because basically just got a free chance to grope her ass and you didn't want to let go.

"Brittany!" you hiss, suddenly slightly worried, "you shouldn't be jumping around like that with your head injury!" You feel kind of hypocritical saying it because she technically shouldn't be having "sleepovers", or any late nights for that matter, and you broke both of those rules multiple times over the weekend. Some trainer you are.

Quinn sidles up to the two of you, arms crossed and a scowl on her face. She doesn't look incredibly excited but then again, her normal expression is akin to one that people generally wear when they have a stick lodged up their ass.

"Lopez", she says, "have I ever mentioned that you're terribly impolite on the phone?"

You let out a laugh, remembering what you'd said to her before hanging up on Sunday, and even Brittany is covering up her mouth in an attempt to keep her spluttering from turning into an all-out belly laugh. Quinn doesn't look terribly amused but she lets out a little smile.

"Well, whatever, glad you found Britt instead of some total creep like last time." You don't even want to know where the rest of that story goes, and you're glad when Brittany, who has snuck behind Quinn and is resting her chin on the smaller girl's shoulder presses a finger to her lips, effectively silencing her.

You find their interactions interesting. Brittany may be childish sometimes, and Quinn usually gives off the air of importance and is generally "in-charge", but their relationship contradicts this. Brittany has been very much in-control of Quinn when you've seen them together, and you can't blame the normally stoic blonde for melting in her presence. It's hard not to.

"We don't have to remember that little accident, Q. I was drunk that time, anyway, this is only a concussion." Quinn rolls her eyes but Brittany doesn't notice, and she looks directly at you from over her friend's shoulder.

"Soooo, me and Quinn are off to get milkshakes because I have a killer headache and I was grumpy earlier, and milkshakes work miracles. Wanna come? We're going to the place down the block 'cause Q has to be back in an hour for practice but I didn't wanna go alone."

Quinn raises a finger, "Correction. I was going to accompany Brittany while _she_ gets a milkshake, because I have practice and I'd rather not be puking all over the field from lactose-induced cramps."

You laugh, again, because the words that just came out of Quinn Fabray's mouth were just so "Berry-esque" that you have to hold your tongue to keep from saying something along the lines of "_woah, calm down there, Berry_" just to get a rise out of her.

"Alright, alright I'll come along" you say, locking eyes with a smiling Brittany, "now let's get out of this damn school. I've had enough of these ignorant fools."

Brittany squeals and you jump slightly as you feel her arm slipping to link with yours, you on her left and Quinn on her right, like a human chain. She wants to skip down the hall but Quinn shoots you a worried glance and you tell her it's not good for her head. Glancing up to your right, you notice for the first time just how small you are in comparison to her height. It's funny to think that she's a soccer star standing at almost six feet tall, but she's very graceful and fast, her talent making up for the disadvantage her height probably gives her on the field.

When you stand next to tall people, you normally struggle with feeling significant. It's something you've had to work on your whole life, asserting yourself. But Brittany doesn't make you feel small, she makes you feel important, and you love that feeling. Usually the only way you feel important is when you help someone out or boss someone around at training. Your parents aren't always around, and while they're proud of your kick-ass grades, they don't have much time to pay you compliments.

Brittany gives you that feeling without you having to boss her around, or even help her that much. She makes you feel needed, necessary, significant. She pulls you and Quinn through the double doors of the back exit of school, chattering away happily about what kind of milkshake she's going to get. Quinn is finally acting like a normal human being, getting excited over an upcoming game and you find yourself just walking quietly next to them, enjoying listening to their random conversation.

You talk like this all the time to Puck because he hates awkward silence and avoids ever shutting up. You wish he could join you guys, but things are still awkward between him and Quinn and he's stuck in school re-taking a test (he'd been accused of cheating after staring at some girl's boobs almost the entire time, the idiot. You were much more subtle in your leering).

Ten minutes later, you find yourself seated at the counter of the cliché old-timey diner that is just down the street from McKinley. Brittany was surprised to find out that you've never actually been inside, but it's the kind of place you generally avoid. You've never had that much interest in hanging out in the type of massive group that normally occupies the place after school. It's a popular hangout for the legions of freshmen that haven't been exposed to the more exciting (and much sketchier) brand of after-school activities normally associated with high school students.

It's not that you don't have enough friends to construct one of those large groups, it's just that they all hail from totally different walks of life. You'd much rather spend time in small groups depending on your mood. If you need some girl time, you'll have an evening with Mercedes and Tina, and perhaps Kurt. If you want a night out with the "bro's" you hit a party with Puck, Sam, and Mike. Blaine is your go-to coffee or study date because the two of you have a ton of the same classes and he's the only friend you have that doesn't encourage reckless and idiotic behavior.

Other than that, you tend to fly solo because people in general piss you off. You've come to discover from years of living in Lima that most of its inhabitants are total close-minded morons. The place might as well be called Loserville, USA.

On the other side of the counter stands an older woman wearing a classic diner-type uniform and holding a yellow notepad. She looks a little flaky and something about her eyes tells you that she may also be a little drunk.

"Hey there, Brittany P, I haven't seen your face around here in quite a while. Then again, all the days tend to blur together after a couple of good drinks, eh?" the woman winks at you and Quinn, who simply palms her face. Brittany, on the other hand, looks at the woman with adoration in her eyes.

"Oh man! It's been almost a week, hasn't it? Sorry Auntie April, I got hurt at soccer and I totally forgot to come on Sunday for breakfast." Brittany looks down at the napkin that she's twisting between her fingers, a guilty look on her face.

"Aww honey, it's not a biggie. And I see you brought friends, though I'm willing to bet that Quinn here isn't having anything. You know one milkshake ain't gonna turn you into a blimp, Hun. Those days are long gone."

Quinn blushes furiously and shoots the lady a death-glare. You can tell that they're regular patrons of the place by the way the tipsy waitress addresses them, a tradition probably enforced by Brittany judging from the way her eyes lit up when you guys entered the place and she sat down, spinning in her stool. The woman casts her glassy gaze on you, smiling brightly.

"Well you're a new one, I can tell. I've never seen you 'round here and I never forget a face. What's your name, sweetie, and what're you havin' today?"

Before you can utter a word or even glance up at the neatly-chalked menu above the ice-cream counter, Brittany cuts in.

"That's Santana, April. She's not really new around here. And she'll have..." she pauses, holding her chin in mock-thought, "a strawberry-crème shake."

You suppose that sounds pretty good, and you honestly have no idea what to order, so you just nod. April smiles at you again, the skin around her eyes crinkling slightly.

"Brittany's got sort of a knack for predicting people's orders," she says, "she's been comin' here twice a week since she was a baby and ordering for people for as long as I can remember, and she has yet to disspoint." She looks to Quinn who nods solemnly in agreement before excusing herself to go wash her hands in the restroom, muttering something about the school being disgusting and _Contagion_ scarring her for life. You hadn't seen that ridiculous movie but you share her sentiment about germs and excuse yourself as well, sliding off the stool and feeling a rush of electricity as your hand brushes Brittany's waist.

She politely waves at the two of you before turning back to her conversation with April who is currently heaping ice cream into two large metal cups behind the counter. You follow Quinn to the bathroom which you note is actually quite large and clean. Quinn sees your surprise at the neat state of the restroom and laughs.

"April likes to keep it clean back here in case she needs to duck in for a quickie with a truck driver." She deadpans, turning on the sink to wet her hands before carefully applying soap. You're pretty sure you're going to have to bend down to pick your jaw up off of the spotless floor, but you laugh it off and walk over to the other sink to wash your own hands. Suddenly, a thought comes to your mind.

"Please tell me that "Auntie" is only a term of endearment and that insane woman is not actually related to Britt."

Quinn just laughs again and makes eye-contact with you in the mirror. "No, don't worry they're not related, but Brittany has really been coming here forever and she tends to drag me along with her. I used to love it when we were younger, but now she's really the only one who's genuinely excited to come here. Her, uh...her dad used to take us on Sunday mornings after she had soccer games with the Parks league and we just never stopped going."

You nod in understanding, but you're actually a little bothered by what she's saying. You hadn't seen Brittany's dad when you went to her house, and she hadn't mentioned him all weekend. She only ever spoke about her mom. Well, actually, you vaguely remember the last word she uttered as the two of you fell asleep on her couch on Saturday. She'd said "Dad" just as the game on TV had ended, but you were to tired at the time to really comprehend the implications.

Shutting off the water in the sink, you decide to ignore it and wait until Brittany brought it up in conversation. You've never been the type of person to pry into the business of others, leaving that to more outgoing people who tend to piss everyone off. Quinn smiles at you as the two of you exit the restroom and return to the counter where Brittany and April are still talking as the older woman applies whipped cream to the top of the two shakes.

You slide back onto your seat, which is not easy feat considering the incredibly tight jeans you've chosen to wear today and Brittany pushes your shake towards you. You grab the straw that is offered and take a sip, enjoying the cold sweetness as it fills your mouth. It's probably the best milkshake you've ever tasted and you have to admit that Brittany either had mad predicting skills or April is one crafty bitch when it comes to the art of milkshake-making.

The tiny woman slides Quinn an ice water with a little slice of lemon in it, telling her that it's there because she's a "sour prude" before teetering off into the back of the diner to refill the coffee of some old war vets. Brittany lets out a loud laugh and then clutches her head, a going trend that you have noticed, and Quinn just shrinks into her stool, scowling.

"Every damn time, that woman. I swear, one day I'm going to get revenge by posting a PSA about her STD's or something."

You gag at the thought of what sort of infections someone who sleeps with truck drivers might get and Brittany just looks confused.

"I have no idea what either of those acronyms mean but I get the gist and you shouldn't do that, Q. The woman practically lives for her 'afternoon delight'. She'd be devastated." _There_ _she goes again with her sneaky intelligence_, you think.

Of course, Brittany didn't know the exact full meaning of "PSA" and "STD", but she still managed to correctly use the words "acronym" and "gist", words that half the morons in your graduating class wouldn't even consider adding to their common vocabulary. You're silently impressed even though Quinn is shaking her head. Brittany takes a huge sip of what looks like a mint-chocolate-chip shake and lets out a sigh.

"Oh my goodness, you guys you have no idea how freaking amazing that brainfreeze feels right now." She closes her eyes and smiles before sucking on her straw again, trying to achieve the same effect. She looks adorable as hell and you have to tear your eyes away from her mouth as it works hard on the straw. You shouldn't be getting turned on right now by something so innocent and you opt to take another hearty sip of your own milkshake to achieve the "cold-shower" effect.

It works, thank goodness, and your cheeks feel a little less flushed. Milkshakes, it turns out, are the cure to all maladies and you decide to mention something about it next time you see your parents, which will probably be tomorrow evening as they've both cleared their schedules so that you can have a family dinner. It's going to be the first one in weeks and you're excited as hell to tell them all about your weekend and catch up. April comes back around the counter and sets down her coffee pot, just as Quinn is sliding off her stool.

"All right ladies, I'm off to practice. It was nice seeing you, Britt and Santana." She turns to April, shooting her a mock death-glare, "Keep it clean, April."

The older woman just lets out a tittering laugh and waves Quinn out. "Love you too, honey, and don't forget to say hi to Rachel for me! And remind her about karaoke night!" Quinn spins around and shoots her one last exaggerated eye-roll before pushing open the door and gliding out in the direction of the school. April turns back to you and Brittany who are now the only ones left sitting at the counter. She looks you in the eye.

"Speaking of karaoke, Brittany here tells me that you work for that hot piece of ass, Will Schuester. He comes in here every Saturday night with that ginger woman but it's only a matter of time before he's another notch on my bedpost, if ya know what I mean..."

She gives you a giant wink before turning back to the pie that she's currently slicing, and you just barely hear Brittany mumble "More like a notch on the bathroom stall." She's keeping a straight face but what she just said was wildly inappropriate and rude to a hilarious extent. Before you know what you're doing, you reach down to give her a scolding smack on the thigh, signaling that you heard what she said. There's a glint in her eye like she was expecting you'd do that and she catches your hand before it leaves her leg, curling her fingers in between yours.

You can feel yourself blushing wildly as she moves your still joined hands off of her leg and lets them hang before going back to calmly sipping her milkshake. You glance around and notice looks of disapproval from the veterans in the back corner and the old ladies up by the front door. Brittany ignores the looks but squeezes your hand as if to say "I don't care what they think" and you feel a calm wave rush through your body. She doesn't have to say anything, she doesn't even really have to move, but you know she cares about you feeling comfortable.

You could let her hand go at any time and you're sure she isn't going to fight you on it, but you squeeze back just as tight. When she's done with her milkshake, she lets out another contented sigh and turns to you. Because your hands are still joined, her turning causes your stool to swivel and you're now facing each other, your left hand still entwined in her right. She sucks in a little breath and looks directly into your eyes.

"Sooo, I was thinking..." Your pulse immediately picks up at the implications of those four words and you know she can totally feel it, you hope your palms don't start to sweat as well.

"Y-yes, Britt?"

"Well, you've been so, so nice to me and my mom told me that I should thank you and I sorta had an idea of how to do that. I was like, wondering if I could maybe take you to dinner or something. I'd pay of course because otherwise I'd just owe you, _again_."

Even though you're already biting your lip, you can't stop the impending flow of un-eloquent word-vomit that escapes your mouth.

"You want to go out to dinner with me? Like, just me and you?"

"Yeah, San just me and you. No Puck this time even though I always thought he was funny in middle school. Just me and you."

You notice how she repeated the phrase twice for clarification, and your heart soars at getting to spend time with her.

"Sounds awesome," you say, trying to play it cool, "just tell me a day and I'll clear my schedule."

She grins happily and grips your hand tighter, squeezing it in excitement.

"Well, I really wanted to go sooner than later, and I know you're really busy the rest of the week because you told me your training schedule on Friday and I put it in my phone so that I could visit you all the time and say thanks for helping me. But then we spent all that time together the rest of the weekend and I heard you on the phone with your mom on Sunday morning making dinner plans for tomorrow. And I don't want to interrupt those. So, since I know you're free tonight and you already said you didn't have any homework, I was wondering if you wanted to go to Breadsticks at like, seven?"

As soon as you wrap your head around her long-winded explanation and finally begin to comprehend the question at the end, your heart starts to beat even faster. You can't believe that even in her daze and forgetfulness, she still managed to remember all of these key details of your life. It's an incredible considerate gesture and even though you were kind of looking forward to a quiet evening in after a semi-stressful weekend, you can't say no. You won't lie, though, you're also kind of excited to get a chance to spend even more time with her than you already have, because looking past the circumstances under which you two were brought together, the past four days have been incredible.

"You know what, Brittany?" you say, reaching into your wallet to grab a ten-dollar bill that you promptly slap down on the counter (something you've always wanted to do, even if you're buying shakes instead of tequila), "if you're gonna be paying for dinner, then I better pay for these milkshakes, huh?"

It takes her a moment but when she realizes the implications of your response she wraps her arms around your shoulders and squeezes you into a tight embrace. You feel all of your blood rush to your face but you return the hug and pull away when you catch April staring at the two of you, an inquisitive look on her face. She snatches up the bill from the counter and tells you she's keeping the change before throwing Brittany an approving wink and heading back into the kitchen. Brittany grins and pulls you out of the diner before you can even get the chance to slip on your coat.

You notice she's dressed more nicely today, probably because she came to class late and didn't have to rush in the morning. The wool coat is back and she's got a warm-looking grey sweater underneath. You touched it earlier and it feels really soft. The thing about her outfit that surprises you is the out-of-season pair of pastel-pink shorts she's sporting with knee-high socks. It's quirky and cute and totally something the Brittany you've come to know would wear, even if she is getting strange looks from passersby.

Although, those looks are more likely due to the fact that as soon as you did manage to slip on your coat, she linked your arms together and pulled you tightly against her. _Screw them_, you think, and you try to convince yourself that they're just jealous because you're linking arms with the most beautiful and interesting girl in this entire goddamned town. When you reach your car, Brittany doesn't even have to ask for a ride home because you walk around to the passenger side and open the door, gesturing awkwardly for her to get in. She giggles at your random act of chivalry and slides gracefully into the seat, securing her seatbelt in place before you even get in on your side.

On the way to her place she turns the radio on and finds a good station that you didn't even know existed, but you turn the volume way down reminding her that listening to music, along with TV and videogames, is not really great for her head. She begrudgingly agrees and crosses her arms in a huff, and you respond by rolling your eyes in mock-annoyance. She snorts loudly, but still manages to be cute as she pouts her lip and looks out the window.

You have the sudden urge to lean over and capture that lip in your own in order to wipe the pout off of her face, but it could potentially cause a car accident and you're sure that something like that would ruin your chances of having a nice dinner with her. When the car pulls up outside of her house, she stops drawing patterns in the condensation of the window and unbuckles herself.

"All right, pick me up at six forty-five, kay?"

She throws you a dazzling smile before leaning over to give you a ninja-fast kiss on the cheek before scurrying out of the car and up to her little porch. The small action leaves your heart thumping and the blood pounding in your ears, and you watch her unlock her door and slip inside her house. It's only when she disappears behind the door that you remember to start breathing again, and you let out a shaky little laugh before pulling the car back into the street and driving off towards your house.

Glancing at the clock your see that you've got about two and a half hours before you need to pick her up, and you begin to plot your plan of action. The first thing on your list is a power-nap, because you intended to grab one sneakily at lunch but ended up working through the whole period on an assignment. Damn your constant need to be on top of things. You were hoping for a little energy boost from the ice-cream (it certainly contained enough calories, you couldn't blame Quinn for not partaking), but you had no such luck.

You enter your empty house and set an alarm to go off in an hour so that you'll have plenty of time you get ready. Your last thought before you crash down onto your mattress, fully-clothed is, _is this a date?_

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><p><strong>Pardon the cliff-hanger! It only means I'll try and update sooner. <strong>

**I was sick today so I basically just woke up about two hours ago, ate some food, proof-read this, and submitted it. So pardon my grammatical mistakes. **

**Someone asked for more Quinn in the reviews and I thought that was kind of hilarious at the time, knowing that this chapter was chock-full of Quinn. I just love her. Not much Brittana action in this one, sadly, but that's how it is. **

**Favorite and Review, you know the deal. I'll write later this week and we'll see about an update!**

**P.S.- I was so pumped for tomorrow's (Tuesday's 3x14) episode but then I got a call and it was like "Can you work a swim meet 'till like eight on Tuesday?" and I was like "Yeah, sure no problem." So now I'm like "fuckkkkk I'm missing what's about to be a baller episode." Santana's gonna rap, for fuck's sake. Ugh. Peace out, guys.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Sorry about the wait. Real life things are happening. Busy busy busy.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own glee and all mistakes are mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter 8.<strong>

_Beep. Beep. Beep Beep. Beep Beep Beep._

Well, this is familiar.

You fumble for your phone, finger sliding across the screen to turn off the incredibly loud sound that is blaring out of it. It's five-fifteen in the evening, and you're groggy as hell after power-napping for an hour. Taking naps during the day has never been good for your attitude. You have a tendency to go from your normally incredibly shitty mood to something that people have nightmares about. At least that's what you like to think. Intimidation had always been your thing. In fact, the only person you've ever met that you have no power over whatsoever is Brittany. _Brittany...OH SHIT! _you think before scrambling out of bed.

The sudden movements give you a head rush as you stand up so you clutch the bridge of your nose as you try to clear the fogginess in your brain and remember what time you're picking her up. _Oh, six forty-five._ Big freakout and you've got an hour and a half. _Smooth moves, Lopez. _These thoughts bring you back to the last thing you'd been considering before passing out unceremoniously on your bed an hour earlier.

Brittany's taking you to Breadsticks. It's going to be just the two of you. She's paying but you're driving (she can't drive with a concussion and you're pretty sure she doesn't know how to anyway). _Is this a fucking date or not?_

In all honesty you'd like it to be, you really would. You're not about to scream that at the top of your lungs from the rooftops, but you've realized over the past few days that this stupid two-year crush has transformed. You've got...ugh...real feelings for her. And it scares you just a little bit. You'd always had this little mantra in the back of your head "_it's better without feelings, nobody gets hurt. It's better without feelings nobod-_" and you've repeated it often while hooking up with girls. Brittany's different than anyone you've ever met. To someone that doesn't know her she's a beautiful girl with a sweet smile and an eclectic fashion sense.

But to someone who _does_ know her, to you, she's one a billion. Just the fact that you feel like you really know her after less than a week is proof enough that she matters to you. You've had a lot of friends in your time despite the fact that you're always trying to push everyone away. You've known a lot of people, you're surrounded by them constantly, but Brittany stands out. She can light up a room with just a twirl or a smile, and she can befriend anyone with just a few words. The two of you have this strange thing going on, something that you're having trouble defining due to the one important thing.

You're not used to other girls being the ones to kiss you first, so when she kissed you on Saturday night it was sort of the most amazing thing to happen to you, but also the scariest. You wanted to talk to her about it more today, but you got so distracted at the Diner by everything that was Quinn and that crazy woman April Rhodes. As far as you're concerned, one kiss does not consecrate a relationship, at least not the kind of relationship you want. And realizing that is what's scary because you don't do relationships, you can hardly even handle friends recently.

What you want to have with Brittany is something you're pretty sure you'll never get. It's not like it matters anyway because you'll both be graduating the first week of June, and you've honestly got no idea where she's going to college, and chances are it's not in any of the places you've got lined up as possibilities. Your thoughts are getting more and more bitter as each moment passes, and it's almost a relief when your phone buzzes and pulls you out of your darkness.

It's from Quinn and at first you're confused but then you remember her getting your number on Saturday so that she could text you. You shake your head as you think about how quickly Brittany and everything that comes with her had invaded your life, and then you unlock the message. The contents cause a feeling in your chest that must be similar to cardiac arrest. You have to read it again. And again.

**Santana. B is very much so considering this a date. She's been calling it that all day. Don't fuck up.**

This is a date. It's an honest to God date. This has officially become a big deal. Well, it was always a big deal but now it's huge. There's something that not a lot of people know about you, besides your parents of course. Puck may have speculated about it in the past, but you've never told anybody. In all of your eighteen years of existence, you've never once been on a real date.

So, of course, now is the moment that you're finally getting around to doing that thing you've not had the chance to do, well, ever. And that would be standing in front of your open closet doors, clothes everywhere, freaking the _fuck_ out. You pull out pants, skirts, dresses. None of them seem to look right or make the statement you want to make to Brittany. Problem is, you're not quite sure what you want that statement to be.

Temporarily defeated, you retreat to the bathroom to shower because it will hopefully clear your head. The shower helps a little and the color you see when you close your eyes fades from an angry red to a calming blue. It seems that blue had been playing a significant role in your life as of late, seeing how it totally defines everything that is Brittany. Well, she's more like a happy mixture of blue and yellow, so does that mean her color is green? No, no, definitely blue. That would make your color red, definitely, but you already knew that. Besides, red looks great with blue. And just like that, you know what you're going to wear.

After two minutes of checking yourself out in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, you're satisfied with your sexiness and you return to toweling off. You go back to your closet and pull out the outfit of choice, laying it all out so that you can put it on after you get ready the rest of the way.

Forty-five minutes later you're ready, and you're back in front of the mirror. The reflection staring back at you is definitely satisfactory. Your hair is brushed over to one side of your neck and curled ever-so-slightly giving it the "Hollywood" look you perfected while bored over Christmas break. You've got a long-sleeved white shirt on with horizontal black stripes. It's a little long but you love that because it looks so much better tucked into your fire hydrant-red skinny jeans, a dark brown leather belt looped through the belt loops. You opted for black high heels to class the whole thing up a little bit. A brown leather jacket completes the entire outfit because even though it's mild outside when compared to recent weather, it's still fucking cold.

Seeing yourself looking so good temporarily eases the pre-date (holy shit) jitters. You put on your best "confident" face in the mirror before grabbing your keys and heading downstairs. Even if she's the one paying, you're driving and you still think it chivalrous to arrive early.

With that in mind you're back to freaking out because Santana Lopez is not chivalrous. Santana Lopez is supposed to be a fucking lady-player who can get any girl she wants, do whatever she wants, and then discard them before they can discard her. You actually hate being nice to other girls despite the fact that you're attracted to them exclusively. You'd prefer most of your scandalous encounters to go down without eye-contact if at all possible.

But it's different with Brittany. Hence the chivalry. That's what you tell yourself as you put the car in gear to pick her up, then begin to freak out. Again.

A lap around her block later you finally manage to actually park the car outside of her house and get out. Your nerves have left you five minutes early instead of ten, but that's probably okay because Brittany seems to follow a general trend of taking forever when it comes to this type of thing, whatever "this type of thing" is supposed to be.

When you ring the doorbell you hear footsteps that while light, aren't light enough to be Brittany's. It's crazy how you've come to pick up on this sort of thing, but that's life. Luckily your observations allow for you to remain relatively unfazed when Susan Pierce opens the door, the "relatively" being a necessary addition because she's smiling incredibly brightly and it sort of creeps you out.

"Good evening, Santana." she says, still grinning. You return her greeting politely, remembering to address her by her first name and earning yourself another brilliant smile and a little clap. She seems so damned happy and it reminds you of Brittany this afternoon. They share a lot of similarities and you can't help but wonder if their family is the type where each new generation is a better version of the old model. It's not that Susan is lacking in good traits, her daughter just happens to be perfect. Your mind wanders for a moment as you wonder what Brittany's kids will be like, but that thought sort of weirds you out so you shake it off.

Susan drags you inside and you tense up a little, getting nervous again. Of course that is just before she opens her mouth, shouting up the stairs to where Brittany must be.

"Honey, your hot date is here! Hurry on down!"

She shoots you a wink and you could actually _die_. Brittany told her mom. _Her mom_. You weren't even comfortable with her damned cat knowing, let alone Quinn, let alone the woman that feeds and clothes and protects her. And you're positive that the older blonde Pierce wasn't just joking, because she may seem unfazed but her eyes have been carefully judging you throughout the entire ordeal, despite the smiles and the little claps. You hear muffled sounds coming from Brittany upstairs, which you guess is her trying to tell you it'll be just a moment without yelling and giving herself a headache.

You turn your attention from the stairs to Susan, deciding that now is as good a time as ever to get past this whole awkward "I'm going on a date with your daughter" thing.

"Are you sure you're cool with this?" you ask hesitantly, hoping for a positive answer but preparing for the worst. She reaches out and touches your arm and you're careful not to freeze. You really don't like people touching you without permission.

"Of course I am, sweetie. She got plenty of sleep last night and I didn't feel like cooking anyway. Besides, you've been so good to her, I won't let you pay." It's obvious to you that she's skirting around the subject that you were trying to get at, probably in an attempt to make you more comfortable, these Pierce women are too nice. Unfortunately for her, you're not having any of it.

"I meant, like, _this_. Not many parents around here are too happy with me just being around their daughters, let alone taking them to dinner." It's true, though. Since you came out your parents and the school have received multiple e-mails stating that they want it made entirely clear that their children are off-limits to you. Since then you've fucked most of those "children", and there were definitely no complaints coming from _them_.

"Oh honey that's simply ridiculous. I remember the day that Brittany came to me, frustrated as I've ever seen her, crying because she couldn't decide if she'd rather marry Barbie or Ken if they came to life like Tyra Banks in that awful movie. I think whoever makes her happy is best for her. I may have just met you, Santana Lopez, but you make her smile, and you've been so incredibly kind. I couldn't be more satisfied with her choice." She rubs your elbow where her hand has remained throughout the conversation. Being touchy-feely seems to run in their family. Usually you'd be uncomfortable but you feel yourself relax, although that feeling may be coming from her acceptance.

You can't believe she thinks you're "Kind", as that is usually the antonym of words used to describe you. Then again she has only encountered you around Brittany, someone who seems to bring out the best in you. You hear a noise on the stairs and Susan's hand drops as you turn to see Brittany descending, graceful as ever.

She's wearing a pair of dark-wash jeans and a plain tee shirt underneath a sunny yellow cardigan. She's casual and smiling and shining like the sun that is still not quite totally set, as Sunday was the day that you and the rest of the country "sprung forward" (and the rest of the world for all you know, you only care that you lost and hour of sleep).

She continues down the stairs and gives her mother a quick peck on the cheek, exchanging a few short words about curfew and you're forced to promise to get her home soon. You hold open the door for her and watch her as she walks down the concrete and towards your car. You're not leering, just making sure she's okay.

If there's one thing you've learned, it's to never trust anyone with a head injury when they're walking, as the dizziness tends to land them flat on their ass. Then you realize that it's Brittany. Brittany never falls down, never stumbles, never stutters in her step. She may not glide like Quinn (the way that girl moves sort of freaks you out) but she is certainly not lumbering along like some of the absolute trolls that inhabit your school.

You make it to your car in a silence that lasts until after you've both fastened your seatbelts and are a couple blocks away from the Pierce residence when you can feel Brittany's eyes on you. You glance at one of your mirrors to see that she's eyeing you with this sort of guilt-filled grin, like the cat ate the canary or some shit. That phrase always reminded you of innuendo and now your minds in the gutter and you're blushing. She takes this as a cue to speak.

"Sorry for tricking you." she says, in a voice that tells you that she's not really sorry, she most likely thinks that her plan was both genius and hilarious but she's trying to be polite. You don't mind.

"I don't mind." You reply, surprised that it's an honest answer, and another glance in the mirror tells you that she approves of your response. You're trying to keeps your eyes on the road.

The silence envelops you two again, but it isn't awkward this time. It's more of a comfortable thing. It almost reminds you of the silences that grace the time you spend with Puck. They're the sort of quiet spells that can only be shared by people that understand each other so well that there is literally no need for conversation.

You'd like to think that it can become that way with Brittany. Although you also enjoy hearing her voice, the bubbling laugh, the silly little points she adds on to the end of each nonsensical thought she voices. It's a sort of reassurance. When you're having a conversation with your other friends it always seems a bit forced, like your daily interactions with Kurt and Mike or the pleasantries you exchange with Emma each day when you report for "duty".

The silence is so easy that you don't even realize it when you've pulled up outside of Breadsticks. It's probably the years of autopilot and the sort of magnetic pull this place has on you. You hop out, walking quickly around the car to open Brittany's door for her before she can even finish unbuckling her seatbelt.

She smiles and thanks you, and you feel a rush as she takes the hand you extend to her even though she would most-likely make a more graceful exit by herself. When she's out of the car and you've plugged the meter (well, you hand her the coins because she demands to do it, smiling happily as the time continues to rise and rise on the little display) the two of you just sort of stand there on the sidewalk for a moment.

The sun is setting now, and it reflects in the colors that the two of you are wearing. Brittany stands less than a foot away from you and stares into the distance where the sun is slowly sinking lower, a ball of fire dropping below the tree line. A cool breeze blows through, rustling the still-bare branches and making Brittany shiver.

You take this as an excuse to wrap your arm around her waist, walking closer to her than you ever have as you enter the restaurant side by side.

The waitress shoots the two of you a disapproving look, but you just fire back with you equally (if not more) impressive stinkeye. She's an old bag of a woman but she's worked there for ages and the two of you have never gotten along. It doesn't help that once she realized why you were always taking girls there she started to mix up your order and put weird things in your food. She better not try that shit tonight.

You manage to nab a table for two in the back, but you've still got a clear view of the window so you can watch the sun set. You've always had a thing for sunsets because you and Puck used to drive out to the golf course on summer evenings with a six-pack of beer and a couple of clubs and hit ball after ball into the orange and red sky. Tonight the colors are deeper, with burgundy and purple making appearances, as if someone had spilled wine across the pale grey-blue canvas that had been present earlier.

"Beautiful." You hear her whisper, and you nod in agreement and turn to her, only she's not looking out the window, but at you. You quirk an eyebrow simply out of habit, confused.

She just sighs and continues her thought. "Whenever I used to see you, you always used to look kinda pale even though you have dark skin. At the bus stop and at the party, you were terrified, and at my game and in the training room, you looked exhausted and stressed-out. But now the sun's hitting your cheeks just right and they look red and dark and gorgeous, like a cinnamon roll combined with an apple, super-sweet."

And now she's got you blushing, and your people don't even blush (or that's what you've been telling everyone for years). You bow your head, suddenly feeling humbled by her eloquent words. Brittany seems to have a sort of quirk about her, one where she may say silly things all the time to lighten the mood, but she had these emotional, intelligent insights that are nothing short of genius. Brittany just seems to know people, know them in a way you're sure you never could. You don't like people enough.

She takes your hands quickly and sneakily, the same way she always does everything, and asks if it's okay. You say it's fine of course because in your opinion it's more than ok, it's the best feeling ever.

You're not sure if this is the right thing to say or the right moment or if it will make things incredibly awkward forever and ever, but you feel like it's only right to tell her.

"This is my first date with a girl that I've been genuinely interested in, like, ever." You let out sheepishly, looking down at the table and at your interlaced fingers, mentally going over the bones and joints and muscles. It's how you distract yourself from the horribly lame admission you just made.

"It's mine too, you know, with a girl." She says, instantly making you feel better even though that was sort of obvious for a town like this.

You find yourselves staring at each other, just smiling in the happiness of the moment until you're interrupted by a plate of steaming pasta. She insisted on ordering even though she's paying, something that would normally be considered insensitive but you let it go because a twinkle in her bright blue eyes told you that she has some sort of plan.

You're a little disappointed when you discover that the plan isn't as devious as you'd hoped, but it makes your day anyway.

The two of you spend the meal making light, easy, drama-free conversation. You joke about Rachel and Quinn and whatever the hell they have in common that allows them to be friends. You smile as she tells you stories of epic soccer battles and you relish her horrified looks as you recount some interesting experiences you've had at wrestling meets.

You don't even realize that there's one meatball left on the plate until you both reach for it at the same time. You're frozen because the twinkle in her eye is back again and you vaguely remember her mentioning something about the classic Disney scene and you have your fingers crossed that she wasn't serious (because the two of you have already drawn enough attention, what with your outrageous girl-on-girl handholding).

Unfortunately (or fortunately?) she was deadly serious because suddenly she's got her head bowed and is literally pushing the last meatball across the bed of pasta, using only the tip of her nose. It explains why she mysteriously tied her hair up a minute ago in anticipation and although it is a little embarrassing (and socially traumatizing) she looks ecstatic and you've got the last meatball.

You're about to pick up your fork when your eyes are drawn back to her nose where something far more delicious is stealing your attention. Using two fingers, you reach across the space in between the two of you and swipe the little bit of sauce that ended up on her nose, licking it off your fingers and enjoying the squeal that you actions elicit from her.

"Sannn! That's gross!" she giggles, wiping at her face with a napkin.

"Says the girl that just used her nose to serve me food." You counter, and she puts up her hands in a way that says "you got me".

"For the record," you add, leaning across the table, "I love being served by your nose." And you squeeze your eyes shut as you press a quick peck to the tip of her nose.

You feel a ridiculous little rush go through you as you plop back into your seat across from her at the comically small table, brushing your bangs aside with a shake of your head and smiling at her.

She smiles back, showing some teeth and never breaking eye contact with you, ever bold in her expressions of happiness. The meal continues like that, until you're too stuffed from the 'sticks and the pasta and you have to reuse her offer to split some cheesecake. When the horrible waitress-woman brings the check, you have to resist the urge to snatch it away from Brittany's hands and pay for the meal. Something about her just makes you want to treat her well. It's not like she needs to be taken care of (even though everyone calls her childish, you know that she's very capable), you just like being nice to her.

And that's a strange thought, that actually enjoying being kind. Sure, you get around thirty hours of "community service" a week due to your volunteer position, and you're technically doing something nice for someone every time you tape them up or make them a bag of ice, but outside of the training room there's nothing stopping you from being totally impartial towards Brittany.

So it's fascinating that after years of ignoring advances (yes, most of them were from guys and you're just not interested, although perhaps a little flattered) you've finally decided to be nice to someone, and she just happens to be your favorite person you've met, well, ever, and that is something coming from you because your second favorite person is a mohawked manwhore who has a strange aversion to wearing pants.

Once Brittany happily pays for the meal, thanking bitch-server and returning the napkin you hadn't realized she'd unfolded (see, she's mature) to the table, the two of you take your leave. Back in the day (a year ago, maybe) Puck was always trying to get you to dine and dash with him. You actually did it a couple of times but you love the food here too much to risk being banned. The only place you're willing to dine and dash now is at IHOP, and those are everywhere these days. Speaking of the "House of Pancakes", you decide you're going to have to take Brittany there pretty soon because you get a feeling she'd have a field day with all the sugary treats.

The sun has now set and it's eerily quiet on the streets of Lima. Of course, it is nearly nine PM on a Monday night and the town isn't exactly a metropolis, but the silence is a little foreboding. You're glad when Brittany turns the radio on, singing softly and grabbing your right hand, squeezing it in perfect time to the beat. It's one of those moments that you're glad you were born a leftie and can therefore drive confidently while holding her hand.

When you start to near her house, she stops squeezing, opting to instead trace circles around you knuckles and hum softly. It's nice that she's realized that you're an easily distracted driver. It's probably due to the fact that your mind tends to wander so often when you get behind the wheel that it's hard to think, hold a conversation, and drive all at the same time.

When you reach her block, the hand tightens again, silently signaling that she doesn't want to go as much as you don't want to leave her. But you'll be damned if you break Susan Pierce's rules straight from the getgo (even if breaking rules is fun), so you pull the car up slowly and turn towards her.

"Doorstep kisses are cliché." She says plainly, before taking you completely by surprise and leaning in, pressing her lips to yours for a few blissful moments, searching for a way to say "goodbye" at the same time as expressing so much more. Without a word, she backs away (smiling, of course) and hops out of your car, bounding towards her front door.

She turns for just a moment while unlocking to house, and you suddenly find the ability to speak has once again become a part of your repertoire.

"Front seat kisses are too!" you call, and she lets out a laugh before ducking into the house, leaving you to wonder how you fell so fast for Brittany S. Pierce.

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><p><strong>So that chapter took forever to write. It was written, I hated it with a passion, I scratched it and rewrote it, and now I hate it slightly less. The "F" key on my computer is broken for those of you that didn't already know, so that's a problem that had been pissing me off. Not much else to say except that next chapter is a fun surprise (can you guess it?) and I'm thankful to those of you who've stuck it out with me through my nonsense of an updating schedule. Spring break approaches. Yes. <strong>

**PLEASE REVIEW (and favorite?)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Surprise Time. I know you've been waiting! Or not, but yes, here it is. You'll probably figure it out as soon as you start reading so I'll stop talking about that now.

A Few Words of Thanks:

**Martalar, lileyfan1415, wkgreen, Lanter, kml2355, PoppieJoy, PennyLane93, JF1993, Baron von teddy**, and many others...

Thanks guys for the consistent (and positive!) reviews.

And to **boredsenseless2**: Thanks for the most epic review I've ever been written, it was pretty good to hear such positive remarks. And I can't help but enjoy Man Utd, fan since the young days. I believe my first wallet ever was a Man U wallet purchased with excitement and my own money, haha.

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><p><strong>Chapter 9.<strong>

If I had to put myself in a box, label myself like a can of soup or those yummy peaches, I'd just say I was a people person. That's what my mom always told me and I would ask her why _I_ was a people person, because wasn't everyone? Didn't everyone live life, breathe air, talk and love and fight with each other? At first I was confused, but now I can see that she was right. Not everyone is a people person, it's funny to think that Santana was the one to show me that after all these years.

When I watch her from across the lunchroom or the back of study hall or even from the bench at my games because I have to sit out, I seem to see her around people all the time. She doesn't like them. She doesn't think any less of them but I'm pretty darn sure they make her uncomfortable. The way her jaw tenses up and her shoulders pinch and the creases in her forehead grow deep like the Grand Canyon when I saw it on our road trip when I was little, these things just give her away. I always notice this about Santana. Nobody else seems to, because if they saw these things then maybe they'd actually leave her alone when she's not in the mood.

Mom and I were talking about her the other day. Mom said she was kind in the way her mother taught her to be, the way people aren't any more. She said Santana reminds her of someone, she wouldn't tell me who, but I'm pretty sure I know who it is. There's a certain type of person out there, not labeled like me and soup and peaches, just set aside sort of like the frosting on the cake or the cherry on top of a sundae April makes for me, the best part of something. Santana's in that category, that special kind of person who can't quite be described. Except nobody seems to realize how special she is. Nobody but me.

Well, that's not completely true and I hate lying. I think Puck notices it, and maybe Sam, Kurt, and Mercedes. And I've been trying to get Quinn to notice as well, but everyone else is simply missing out on how awesome Santana is. When I walk down the hallway behind Santana (like a sneaky hallway-ninja) I see how bad it really is. I see the looks, the faces, the finger pointing people direct at her. I think it's just so stupid. Why don't they just accept her? I would say that there was one, tiny difference that sets her aside from all of them, and that would be the fact that she only likes girls. But that just isn't true. There are a ton of things that make San different, better than everyone else, and I'm learning more and more every day.

People are even rude to her when she's trying to help them. I go to the training room every day now because my symptoms are gone and I have to do my "back to play" workouts. It was my last day and San was in charge of me and this guy from Volleyball. I don't even know how you get a concussion in Volleyball because the rules don't make sense to me, but that doesn't matter.

Every time she would give us a new activity like planks or pushups or sprints in the hallway her would turn to me and say how stupid it was that we were being bossed around by a "crazy dyke." I know that I was raised to be above violence, to be above anger, and I believe in being the best person possible, but I've never wanted to hit someone more in my life. I just wanted to punch him and kick at him and scream at him, asking him what was wrong with him that made him not be able to see how awesome she was.

But then I looked up and saw her standing at the sink just about to start emptying water bottles, smiling at me and giving me a thumbs up for making it through my last set of medicine ball curls. It was one of those rare smiles that just made me think of nothing else but the fact that she must have been pretty happy looking at me and that was freaking awesome.

One day I came into the training room and Santana was just glaring at this guy from track. He was a little goofy and a little obnoxious, or at least that's what Quinn told me, and I'm pretty sure he liked to bother Santana. When I walked in at sat down to tie my sneakers and sat down on the stool in front of the table I was on, and smiled at me while we talked about the soccer game from the day earlier. They guy just stood there looking like someone had slapped him or something. He looked pretty silly. He asked her why she was just glaring at him but as soon as _I_ came in she started smiling.

She just turned to him, pointed at me and said "Her? That's because I actually _like_ her." And that totally made my day, because I knew that her special secret happiness always came out when I was around, and it was awesome knowing that I could make her feel that way.

When I took Santana out for our first date I was nervous. Everyone I've ever dated ended up trying to take advantage of me or calling me stupid when they found out the rumors about cheerleaders aren't always true. So of course I was nervous. I wasn't nervous when I first kissed Santana because I got so caught up in how perfect she was, and how much better it would be if she shared some of that perfection with me.

But the day of the date I was nervous. Quinn was super pissed off at me for making her wait around so we could "accidentally" run into Santana after school but I was too scared to do it myself. Luckily everything at the diner was totally smooth and I think Santana had a really good time.

When Santana picked me up for the date, I could tell she was even more nervous than I was and my mom was acting all weird, but I was still super stressed. I was worried that I'd get a headache or feel dizzy and ruin the whole thing and worry her, but my head felt fine the whole time. San was so sweet and when she let me do the meatball trick from Lady and the Tramp, well, that pretty much sealed the deal on the night. She gives the softest kisses I've ever felt and I'm pretty sure I'll never get tired of them, even if her lips are chapped and cold and she sneaks one onto my cheek when she drops me off at the field in the golf cart.

We haven't talked about what we have, romantically at least. I think that's because neither of us want to ruin it with labels. Santana hates labels because she says they really shouldn't exist at all, although I think she'd approve of me being a "people person." I just know that if she ever asks me to be her girlfriend, I wouldn't even have to think on it because I'd totally love that. I decided a while ago that I was going to leave that question and that big decision up to her. It's not like I don't want her to ask me, I just realized that it's a decision Santana needs to make on her own. She's never had a girlfriend before, that's what Puck told me.

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><p>It's practically April now, so the weather's a little warmer and I've been playing soccer again for the past few days. Playing soccer and dancing are two things that I think I'll do until the day I die, and I plan on living for a long time. I've been watching and playing soccer for as long as I could walk and understand the rules.<p>

I remember the rare weekday evenings when I was little and my parents would bundle me up and take me to the McKinley stadium. It was back before they had lights or turf or really nice bleachers, but those were my favorite games. I'd sit down in Dad's lap and he'd whisper in my ear, announcing the game just like he did on the T.V. when Mom and I would watch the professionals play. He knew all the players names even though they were in high school and I thought it was so amazing that he could remember so many things.

He would tell me stuff I didn't use to understand, little tips that have snuck their way back into the corners of my mind over the years. Every time I play a game, I imagine he's up there in the announcer's booth giving everyone the play-by-play and telling them how proud he is of his "little" girl. I think he really would be proud if her could see how good I am, how I can move the ball down the field and weave through the defenders just like he could. I've watched the old tapes of the US team play and my mother tells me I'm just like him. She says both of us have that crazy never-ending energy on the field, the ability to just keep going even when we're down. I told Santana that a couple of days ago and she cried, I think it's because I might have been crying too, but I also thought I could see a little glint of pride in her eyes.

I remember when Mom told me. I was ten years old and waiting in the basement for Dad to get home like I always did. His flights came in late and he was usually jetlagged but I didn't know what that was at the time. My mom explained it to me years later and I realized why I'd been so tired when we went with him to Japan for the World Cup and after we came back when I was really little. I never talked about Dad's soccer career to the kids at school because it was our thing.

After Mom told me that Dad wasn't coming home from England this time, that there had been an accident in the city before he got to the airport, I stopped caring about our thing. I tried to pop all the soccer balls in the house, I wanted to break all the trophies and smash all the pictures and cut up or burn or destroy all of my uniforms, all of his uniforms. It's hard to describe what it feels like to be told that your father, your hero, isn't going to come home from work. It took two years before I could even stand looking at a soccer ball.

Manchester had always been his favorite club, so growing up it was mine. I'll never stop cheering for Man U., it's something my father would be proud of. He was a huge fan even in the early Ferguson years when they were, in his words, a "disaster". He used to tell me the play-by-play of the 1999 Champions League Final at night instead of a bedtime story. Most little kids grew up with Cinderella and Arielle, I grew up with heroic tales of Beckham, Sheringham, and Solskjaer. Maybe that's why I only got around to watching all the Disney movies in those two years of sadness. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that I love soccer more than most things in this world.

I love dance, too, but dance has always been something that came naturally to me. It's a passion, definitely, but it's just a little less dear to my heart than soccer. When I dance, I can clear my head and just not think about anything but the music. It calms me and it puts me at peace in a way that nothing ever has before. Playing soccer is nothing like that. It's wild, crazy, an hour and a half of adrenaline and quick, sharp decisions. People call me stupid but I'd like to see them make a split decision between a shot and a cross, or pass the ball at a perfect angle at exactly the right time.

It's a workout both mentally and physically and challenges me in a way that dance just doesn't. I love dancing so much, but I get to interact with other people a whole lot more when I play soccer and like I said, I'm a people person. Some people think my obsession is ridiculous, but I think Santana realizes how much I just love soccer.

Puck used to make fun of me when we were in middle school and I'd play with the boys, but I was always better than him so he just started leaving me alone. Quinn always rolls her eyes when I want to watch ESPN3 on the computer instead of going to see whatever artsy and weird independent film she and Rachel talk about. Santana, on the other hand, is always willing to watch soccer with me. She likes to watch the US-WNT games especially because she says "women kick total ass."

I thought it was so funny and cute it was when she actually knew how great our Women's National Team was. When I mentioned the win in Beijing she went on a twenty minute rant and declared her undying love for Natasha Kai. I smacked her because I was kind of jealous of Tasha Kai's badass Hawaiian self at that moment. I hope that one day she'll think I'm great enough to declare her undying love for me, but I hope that won't involve me having to get a ridiculous amount of tattoos, because needles hurt and are kind of scary. Mom would also probably kill me.

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><p>Today after school Santana snuck up behind me on my way to the locker room and announced that she's kidnapping me after practice, something about "getting' this Spring Break crackin'." I wasn't sure what that meant but I hoped it was something really fun. Usually our coaches make us stay in Lima for Spring break and go to practice twice a day, but this year there's a coaching clinic in Orlando and most of them are going, which is kind of the best because I haven't had a real Spring Break since eighth grade.<p>

I was really upset when mom said we couldn't go on vacation because she hadn't had enough time to plan something. She wasn't expecting me to have Spring Break off either. Then I thought about how Santana would spend her Spring Break. From what I know about her parents, they're both super-busy doctors who don't spend very much time with her these days.

She told me that they mean well and care and show up to all the important things, but they're just not always around. I can sort of relate to that because it's just me and my mom, and she works, and my dad was off traveling a lot when I was little, but they never left me alone that much. I met her dad once when he was cooking lunch at home on a Sunday.

Santana had driven me and Quinn to one of Rachel's weird plays that she does, and she was really pissed off before we left and only slightly less mad after the play, excuse me, musical was over. I was pretty sure that that was because Rachel had done a really good job. Quinn had smiled through the whole thing and I wanted to dance to the songs in my seat, but Santana had a tight grip on my hand the entire time. It loosened up after a while when she stopped being so angry and just started pretending in order to keep up her act, but it kept me still in my seat and distracted me the whole time.

When we got to her place after leaving Quinn at the show, we came in the back door and went to walk through the kitchen but there was this short older man who looked a lot like Santana cooking something that smelled really good. Santana dropped my hand right away and ran to hug him, getting really excited and bouncing up and down, holding his shoulders. I'd seen her happy before but I never saw her let loose like this and just get pumped the way I liked to when I saw people I loved. I was kind of jealous at first because seeing them talk happily in their super-smart sounding voices made me miss Dad, but I realized that what they had was different.

Santana's dad introduced himself to me and cooked us amazing grilled cheese all while making fun of his daughter and trying to embarrass her as much as possible. It was cool to see how similar they were, both of them sort of scrunched up around the eyes when they laughed and they had the exact same skin color, although Santana has this sort of warm glow around her that I've never seen on anyone else. I would say it was inviting if I didn't know her as a person, it's more a glow of passion than of warmth.

I've only seen Santana's mother from a distance as she rushed off to work, and I've only ever heard her voice on the phone, but it has the same rasp as San's and I'm pretty sure that whatever she didn't get from her dad, she got from her mom. I think her parents seem great and I'd love it if they could meet my mom because they'd get along really well, but they hardly have time for their own daughter let alone her friend's mother.

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><p>I told Quinn about how much it sucked that Santana's parents were always gone, but she just reminded me that at least San's parents didn't ignore her on purpose. I winced because it was true, but I reminded her that Rachel's dads still loved her. Quinn and Rachel are the strangest pair I've ever seen, and that's saying something. When we were younger, and even during the beginning of high school, Q used to hate Rachel. They kind of hated each other, but I think that's just because the rest of the school wanted them to.<p>

When both of them made varsity lacrosse our sophomore year they started tolerating each other. Quinn used to tell me it was because they were team mates but I know she never really hated Rachel, she just thought she did. They're actually really good friends now, but neither of them let anyone know it. Rachel doesn't really have anything to lose because she's already kind of lame (Santana would say she's super lame) but I think she just keeps quiet about it for Quinn's sake. One time I hung out with them for a whole weekend and they spent the entire time walking around with cameras and taking pictures of people when they weren't looking, it was really strange.

I'm not really sure how Quinn handles being friends with both of us at the same time. I don't like to make sense all of the time and Rachel is just plain crazy, so it's no wonder she's really stressed out.

She and Santana seem to get along pretty well since I took them to April's and they had bonding time in the bathroom. Not like, awkward bonding time, but they talked and met each other and stuff and it worked out really well. I'm glad Santana likes my friends (except for Rachel) because I really like hers. I hadn't met Mercedes even though I had a class with her freshman year, but she's really cool and funny and the way she talks makes me laugh sometimes. I think it's awesome that she goes out with Sam because he's pretty much the nicest straight guy I've ever met, well, him and Mike are kind of tied. I say that because Kurt and Blaine are super super nice even though Kurt always calls Santana "Satan" and it kind of pisses her off.

I've known Puck since I started school, and he was always sort of mean to me, but he's gotten nicer since getting to know Santana, I think. He was in my fifth grade class, that was the year my dad died, and I remember him not really knowing how to deal with the fact that I used to be so sad all the time. Now he's really good with sad people, probably because he's friends with San.

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><p>I wish she wasn't so sad or angry or concerned all the time, but it's who she is. I don't think she realizes how many people she helps every day at training. She keeps her distance from them when she's working even though she's in physical contact with them half the time. She's one of the hardest workers I've ever met. Mercedes told me that she goes to every single home basketball game, wrestling meet, or indoor track meet in the winter, and those are the events that last the longest. She showed me a picture on her phone of San passed out on one of the tables. She had a bag of ice in one of her hands and she looked totally exhausted.<p>

Mercedes said that the picture was taken on a Friday this year after she had spent the whole day at school only to stay after and work until eleven at night, and that it had been a nightmare of a day. I didn't think too many people could get hurt running track but apparently Will had been sick and Emma had stayed home with him (they were so cute) meaning that they had to have a sub for the adult trainers. Santana had been helping the sub all night but according to Mercedes there was a fresh injury coming into the training room every twenty minutes and they were just overworked.

I think it's amazing that Santana works so hard at a job she doesn't even get paid for. I don't get paid for soccer but Mom says that now that I'm back from my concussion I'll probably get scouted by a college, so playing my sport will pay off. I don't really care whether or not they give me money; I just want to keep playing. Today at practice our coaches told us to make sure we train on our own over break because there will be scouts when we come back in April. I'm really excited which is why I'm sitting in the training room right now, trying to keep from bouncing up and down.

I got yelled at for wearing cleats in here the other day so I left them outside, which is probably why Santana looks so happy right now as she's walking in carrying an empty cooler. She totally saw them and knew I was in here. Nobody else is around except Emma but she's been on the phone the whole time so I didn't say hi. I usually just stretch or roll on the foam roll while I'm waiting for San but I can't sit still. I'm too excited about the scouts. She put the cooler down and she's walking over to me, smiling because she's totally glad to see me too.

I was thinking about the fact that she wants to kidnap me all of practice, and I got distracted by the coaches telling us about scouts but now I remember. I'm about to tell her about them but she's stopping me with a finger on my lips and it's super distracting.

That's it. I can't concentrate anymore.

"Let the kidnapping commence."

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><p><strong>Did you enjoy the surprise? I felt like writing at least a little from Brittany's point of view. I didn't write it in the second person because it just doesn't feel right to me, I'll leave that to Santana. Many people's questions have been answered in this chapter, so I achieved one of my goals with it. I probably won't write Brittany's side of this story very often if at all ever again because it was a little difficult to get the chapter length I wanted. This one was really short. Next chapter we'll return to Santana's second-person narration and the kidnapping <em>will<em> commence. Get excited.**

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	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Urgh, sorry for the long time between updates. I've got some big stuff coming up for school and I've also been Beta'ing for wherehopelies (the lovely author of _They Bring Me Back,_ read it). Anyway, we're back to Santana's normal POV in this one, the surprise is revealed as well. Happy Reading!

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><p>"Let the kidnapping commence."<p>

Brittany's sort of just sitting there on the table with your finger on her lips. She's looking at it like it's the most interesting thing she's ever seen, her eyes crossing slightly and a grin spreading across her face. You don't think anyone in history has ever been this happy about being kidnapped. You know that that isn't really the right word to use in this situation but _fuck it_ because you like to seem bad-assed and dangerous and spontaneous sometimes. Nothing wrong with that.

She looked antsy when you went in so you're pretty sure she's just as excited as you are for Spring Break. The first half of this semester was long as hell and you seriously can't wait to get out of the damned school. There are only some practices and almost no games happening in the next week so you and Mercedes and the others (you generally like to refer to them as "the lazy ones") don't have to come in unless you're bored out of your minds. You're pretty positive that's not going to happen seeing as you've a girl to kidnap and a plan in your head.

You yell a quick goodbye to Emma who appears to be on the phone and grab Brittany's arm, pulling her from the table and up the stairs. You're leaving early, way early, but it's already five and there are places to, things to do. She lets out a startled giggle and you keep running, stopping only to bend down and scoop up her cleats and duffel bag. You dropped her backpack in your car after school. You're pretty sure there's no glass in the parking lot on the way to your car and she's wearing socks anyway so you drag her out the door and across the concrete.

The weather has been freakishly warm these past few weeks but it's recently cooled down and you were freezing your ass off (this time at baseball) just yesterday. Brittany appears to be cozy in her warm-ups and _ridiculous_ Manchester hat. That said, she seems to never get cold. She's the type of person that will wear tiny shorts to school with nothing but knee high socks to keep her legs warm, while you're bundled up in a massive coat. Being small and vulnerable to the weather just sucks sometimes.

When you get in the car Brittany starts bouncing next to you while she buckles her seatbelt. You suppose it's probably your fault for getting her excited but the sight of her grinning and happy is doing crazy things to you. To elevate the feeling, you grab a rally towel from the glove compartment and blindfold her with it; finally finding a practical use for the stupid scrap of cloth handed out at football games in the fall.

Brittany looks so dopey and cute with the blindfold over her eyes and a smile on her face. She's shooting off questions a mile a minute but you just stay completely silent, laughing as she gets frustrated. Just because she's such a perfect, amazing person doesn't mean that you're not going to mess with her a little bit before revealing the surprise. It's kind of your thing.

Thinking about the surprise, you start to get a little nervous. Your plan doesn't have much structure past the initial day or so and it makes you worry. You've already gotten permission from Britt's mom and your parents, but you don't know how she's going to react to what you're proposing and it could totally ruin the fun. You decide to just wait, wait until she hears the plan. Then you can gauge her reaction and work from there. I she's excited then things will probably work out perfectly, and if she's apprehensive you can just proceed with caution. While messing with people may be your things, proceeding with caution certainly isn't. In all your relationships (none prior to this have lasted more than a night or even an hour) and friendships you've pretty much barreled through niceties and awkward moments, but you feel like you have to be careful with Brittany.

She's not fragile so much as she's volatile, getting to know her so far has been like disarming a ticking time bomb. You haven't had much time and every move has been an act of pure instinct, but the adrenaline rush you're getting can't be beat. The issue is that you don't want to mess up and push her too far. While it seems that she can take the blows life throws her way, people like Puck and Quinn have warned you that things aren't always the way they seem.

When you pull the car up outside of her house she's still bouncing and pestering you. You've been so lost in your own head that you've totally ignored her the entire way, but now you're listening to what she's asking.

"What's the surprise, San? Is it a cake? No that's silly; you wouldn't kidnap me to go get a cake. Maybe we're going to the movies? No? What about a play or one of those musical Rachel always tries to get Quinn and me to go to? Hmm? Santana?"

You can't help but laugh at the sight of her holding a totally one-sided conversation for that long. If someone was ignoring you, you probably would have punched them after the first couple of sentences. You're pretty tempted to give her a killer hint or a clue or something, but you've already planned one of those and the surprise will be revealed within the next five minutes anyway. It's also just _too_ fun to watch her try and guess, especially with the ridiculous towel over her eyes.

"Nah Britt, it's so much better than a stupid musical. Even Berry would be jealous." You're quite sure that your surprise is in fact better than any of the things she guessed, but you add that one to the mental list. _Take B to a musical_.

She notices the car's stopped now and you unbuckle both of your seatbelts, slipping around to her side and opening her door as you help her out.

_That's right, bitches. Chivalry ain't dead_. You think as you help her up the stoop and through the door that was left slightly ajar by her mother. She instantly seems to recognize the smell of her house, and you can feel her shoulders relax from where you're gripping them, trying to lead her up the stairs she descended when you took each other (that's how you've both decided it worked out) on your first date.

"Why are we at my house?" Brittany asks, nudging you softly in the ribs with her elbow once you reach the second-floor landing. You just shush her and push open her bedroom door, the one that is decorated with a collage of pictures and memories that you wish you could have been a part of. Just like she did when you entered the house, she instantly recognizes the smell of her room as you lead her to stand right in front of her bed(vanilla scented candles, you think) and she lets out a little exasperated sigh.

Her frustration is so cute that you almost don't want to reveal the secret, but it's also a little later in the afternoon than you'd originally planned and you've got to get this show on the road. You snake your arms around her waist so that you can grab her hands, and you guide them up to the knot in the blindfold.

"You can take this off now." You say, wanting Brittany to do it herself because you know from experience that blindfolds always end up pulling people's hair a little bit, and being held responsible for that sucks. She tugs at the knot enthusiastically, obviously not caring that it pulls her hair a little, and throws the towel to the floor triumphantly.

At first she just looks around, confused, and you're worried that you didn't make it obvious enough, but then she looks back down at her bed and notices something that obviously wasn't there when she left for school this morning. It's a large, purple, brand-new Nike duffle bag that has "Brittany S. Pierce" embroidered on it (you're a bit of a NikeID junkie, but it's not a big deal). She squeals, a noise that you had never found attractive coming out of anyone else but are recently becoming fonder of every time it come out of her, and runs over to the bag to look inside it.

You're glad she made that choice because your note (major clue) is hidden inside of it, written carefully on a little pink post-it.

"_If you don't know what to pack, make sure to bring a jacket because it's going to get Windy up in this City_" She reads aloud as her face twists into a look of deep contemplation.

"Windy? In this City? What city is windy? A windy city? The Windy City? WE'RE GOING TO CHICAGO?"

She runs back over to you, nearly tackling you with the force of her embrace. You braced yourself for it but your legs seem to forget how to work once her arms are wrapped around you and she's kissing you fiercely, more passionately than ever before. She squeezes you tight for a few wonderful moments before pulling back, her face remaining incredibly close to yours.

"What does this mean?" she asks quietly, her eyes searching yours for an answer, and you know what she's implying. You're taking her on a trip to a big city after having only gone on a couple of dates, not to mention only having been actually acquainted with her since the beginning of the month.

For some reason, it just felt like the right thing to do. You're graduating in like two months and you've got no idea whether or not both of you will even go to college on the same side of the country. If it seems like you're rushing, you sure as hell are. You want to have as many experiences with her before real life kicks in and you have to think about not seeing her every day.

"What do you want it to mean?" you reply, hoping that leaving the question ambiguous and open-ended will make up for the fact that you totally just sidestepped the point she was trying to make. Sometimes you feel like an asshole. Sometimes you just can't help it.

She screws up her face in mock-contemplation, putting a finger on her chin and tapping it, her arm brushing your chest as she does so. "I want it to mean that you'll kidnap me every Spring Break for like, a long time. I want it to mean that we're totally a real couple now, aren't we?" she asks, giving you a taste of your own medicine.

"Yeah Britt, we sure are." You reply, grinning broadly because you've been too scared to ask her yourself. People would think you'd be the brave one between the two of you. People are wrong.

" And we need to get our 'pack' on right now if we're going to make it by tonight." It's really good that she figured out your clue so fast because it would've been awkward otherwise. You're serious about packing fast, though, because the drive to Chicago is going to take around six hours and it's already five-fifteen. Your target time of arrival is a little after midnight and you've already booked for a late arrival at your hotel, but driving any later than that might be a bad idea for you.

Luckily, packing only takes about twenty minutes (a couple of them spent kissing, you couldn't help yourselves) because Brittany likes to be "spontaneous" with her outfits. She wouldn't let you help her pack the underwear (damn it) or her nicer stuff (you appreciate the element of surprise and mystery there) but other than that you've helped her throw together an array of clothing that will suit the turbulent Chicago weather.

By quarter-to-six the two of you are out the door, and once her duffel is thrown into the trunk next to the one you packed last night, the two of you hit the road.

Brittany asks what the rest of the plan is and you refuse to tell her, only saying that the two of you will be back in Lima by Thursday. When she asks why you have to explain that her mother helped you with some of the planning, and that the two of you are being forced into attending Passover at the Berry's house.

She's pissed at not getting more information (cue adorable pouting) but she's also, for some reason, excited for Passover. You're a little bit more excited when she tells you that there will be a near-endless supply of wine and you suppose that it gets bearable after a couple of glasses. You're also determined that as much of this will be a surprise as possible because you can't help but love to spoil Brittany. She cares so much and it's time that someone gave her an entire week of fun.

As you hit the highway the drive starts to seem a little daunting, but neither of you like planes. She told you that her father wasted too much of his life up in the air, the sad look in her eyes almost killing you, and you honestly just can't stand all the screaming babies and bitchy flight attendants. The drive to the airport would have lasted longer than the flight, anyway. This way is totally cheaper and guarantees transportation upon arrival as well. _Oh yeah, you've planned the shit out of this_.

Two hours (and an incredible couple rounds of the license plate game) later both of you are starving and you pull into a diner just outside of Indiana. The place is shoddy and the definition of "Midwest Truck Stop" with lots of big guys in hunting jackets eating steak and drinking coffee and a couple of tired-looking waitresses in faded blue aprons.

Brittany linked your pinkies as soon as you got out of the car but they wary looks you're getting from the patrons are setting you on edge. You're sick and tired of getting judged by people, and these folks don't even know you. The waitress who seats you seems young and friendly enough, unlike the couple at the booth nearest yours who have been whispering the entire time you've been inside.

She giggles a little when she catches the prideful look you give Brittany as she orders the chicken tenders meal with a strawberry milkshake. You just smile and order your grilled cheese, feeling a little braver and gripping Brittany's hand on top of the table, not giving a shit what the other people around you are thinking.

Brittany steals your fries even though she has her own, and you steal hers right back. A war ensues, eventually ending with her plate full of fries and yours empty save the crumbs from your sandwich. The food was actually delicious and most of the other patrons have just been ignoring the two of you, having quickly lost interest in the two girls holding hands and gone back to whatever it is they were doing.

Most of them, of course, but not all. The woman in the booth behind Brittany had been staring at her with a look of disgust on her face becoming more and more evident every time Britt does something cute or tries to feed you a fry. The elderly man that sits with her (you would assume they are married, but you aren't so quick to judge as she is) gives you a look of desperate apology.

You roll your eyes and grab the attention of the nice waitress who quickly brings you your check. Brittany politely refuses to allow you to pay, saying that you're doing so much for her as it is. The truth is that all you want to do is spoil her, because she alone makes you happier than anything that can be bought, but you humor her. That's the thing about a relationship between two girls, chivalry can go both ways. You wonder why people have so many problems with such a flawless system. Idiots.

You get back in the car quickly and listen to softer music as Brittany drifts off to sleep next to you. Two hours later you are pretty close to pissing yourself and the gas tank is getting a little low. You turn into a gas station well into Indiana to empty out and fill up respectively. When you return after purchasing your gas, a cup of coffee, and an energy bar from the mini mart (the intense need to pee had been the only thing keeping you awake) you notice that Brittany is fast asleep but looks really uncomfortable.

You tap your nail on the window that her face rests against and she wakes with a start, hastily cranking down the window to see what's up.

"Where are we?" she asks groggily, rubbing sleep from the corners of her eyes. You can't help but grin at how she looks with sleep marks on her neck and her hair sticking at an awkward angle, the ridiculous hat she's still wearing hanging halfway off of her head.

"We're like two hours out of Chicago." You reply. "Right on schedule. But you don't have to stay up the whole way; the back seat's a lot more comfy than up here." She gives you a look that shows how thankful she is. You don't understand why she'd think you would make her stay up in the front seat the whole way, particularly when she's had such a hard week getting back into playing. The headaches are gone and the stitches are healing up nicely, but Brittany's a little out of shape and she's been pushing herself these past few days.

"That sounds great. Wake me up when you can see the city, I've never seen it lit up at night." You nod, promising you won't forget, and open up the trunk to grab the thick blanket you always keep back there and spread it over her after she lays across the bench seat and buckles herself with the middle belt, You scrunch up your jacket to make her a pillow and you're pretty sure she's asleep before you even start the car up again. There's something incredibly peaceful about the highway at night, everyone sitting in their own little dark box and moving in perfect synchronization towards their own destination.

Earlier today, Brittany told you that she likes to imagine where all those strangers are going. She likes to sit and look at the cars in front of you or on either side and tell you the stories of the people inside them. She wove an intricate tale about the old man in the shiny blue Cadillac, explaining that he was going to visit his daughter and his grandchildren in Michigan (a Mich. State bumper sticker the only thing marring his otherwise perfect paint job) imagining that they would spend the weekend together. She told you about the family of six in the minivan in front of you, about their plans to visit the Grand Canyon and the eldest son's secret wish to meet the girl of his dreams.

You sort of wish that she was awake right now because your imagination is boring and you're shit at that game, but the sounds of her steady breathing and the little noises she makes in her sleep are enough to keep you content. You've never been much of a people person despite the fact that the people you surround yourself with tend to be loud and obnoxious.

It's different with Brittany, though. She makes being around people so easy for you. When you first actually met a few weeks ago on that fateful Thursday (as Quinn put it, poetic bitch) she made you act in ways you weren't used to. She hasn't stopped making you surprise yourself and the novelty isn't wearing off any time soon. It's just so nice to have someone who understands people so easily that you don't even have to tell her when something's wrong. Your other friends only seem to notice that you're pissed when there's practically blowing out of your ears. You feel a little bad for ditching them Spring Break of senior year, but they'll live.

You and Puck have always wanted to go on a road trip, making outlandish and impossible plans since the summer after sophomore year, but they've never actually happened. He was kind of pissed when he found out you were driving up to Chicago with Britt for the week, but he said he totally understood his not being invited. The two of you have a tendency to propose things that you both know will never happen, but when you told Brittany earlier about how he reacted she said that you should all just go on a road trip before everyone started college.

Of course it made your heart stop and your stomach churn just to think about college and the potential of splitting off. Brittany told you at the diner that scouts were coming the week after break. She was practically falling out of her seat with excitement and you tried to be as genuinely happy for her as possible, but the potential of not seeing her freaks you out. You're almost positive that you're going to UCLA to do pre-Physical Therapy, your parents are making you do something about the acceptance letter that's been burning a hole in your desk for the past week and a half.

Sure Brittany has talked about how her dream is to play soccer at a school where it's warm and UCLA's team is pretty good (at least you think so, you did a little research), but it's still super stressful to think about splitting off when you've got such a good thing going. When you told Puck he slapped you in the head and said to "quit being such a moron, it's only been like three weeks", but you can't help how you feel.

You don't want to end up like Rachel Berry and that baseball douche Finn Hudson who are (according to a very frustrated Quinn) battling out because he wants to play ball at a state school and she's without a doubt east-coast bound to either play lacrosse or go into theater. You don't know why Quinn's complaining, she's got almost a full ride to Yale on an athletic scholarship (although she still has to choose between lacrosse and cheerleading) and she'll totally be happy out there, but she obviously really cares about Rachel. They're best friends and they want to be a drive away from each other at most.

A couple months ago you wouldn't have been able to imagine what the big deal was, Puck was probably going to a state school anyway, but now you understand what it's like to have someone in your life that you couldn't stand to be separated from. After the taste of the good life you've been having of late, imagining the next four years without Brittany is impossible.

You're shaken from your thoughts as you pass a sign that says "Welcome to Illinois, the Land of Lincoln" and your heart flutters with excitement. A glance at the Printed out directions in your lap tells you that you're about fifty minutes outside of the city at the longest, and it feels so good to almost be finished with the driving.

As much as it sucks that Brittany can't drive you understand why. She's terrified of cars, the highway, and most of all-taxis. What happened to her dad is something that no kid should have to experience, ever. Even if her year-round practice schedule were to allow her time to get her license, you know that Susan Pierce still might not trust her daughter behind the wheel. The poor woman even called your driving instructor from freshman year to ask about how good you were behind the wheel.

As you begin to see more and more signs directing you toward Chicago, you start to itch to wake Brittany up. When the city lights and the Lake pop out in front of you at the same time, you let out an uncharacteristic squeal.

"Britt! We're almost there! I can see the city!" you call, waving one hand wildly to try and wake her up from the back seat.

"Both hands on the wheel, San." She warns as she sits up, stretching her stiff joints and staring out the window. You comply immediately, driving in complete silence as you both stare out the front window at the city and the black lake as they unfold before you.

You never thought that a lake could look so big, but the damn thing looks like an ocean to you. You didn't tell Brittany this earlier, but this is the farthest you've ever gone outside of Ohio. Your parents have always been too busy to go on big vacations, and they never take you on their business travels. You know she's been out of this country, even to Asia, but you're pretty sure she hadn't done much traveling since her dad passed away. Seeing this huge city looming in the distance with the large expanse of water stretching out to your right, you're a little overwhelmed.

You head west into the city and manage to navigate through the traffic which is not bad at all even though it's a little after midnight on a Friday before pulling into the valet lane outside of your hotel. You hear Brittany let out a gasp behind you and you can't help but feel a similar sentiment. The place looked grand when your dad slid his laptop across the counter to you the other day at breakfast, but it looks so much better in person. You decide that now is about as good a time as ever to give Brittany just a little bit more information about this whole deal.

"How did you afford this?" she asks, gripping your shoulder as the valet walks up to the car with a smug look on his face. Sure, your car is kind of shitty for a patron of a hotel like this, but he doesn't have to be an asshole. You hop out of the car and hand him the keys along with a relatively low tip for his smugness, making your way around to the back to grab your bags before the porter gets to them. You don't like fancy stuff all that much but you were right, Brittany loves it.

"Having parents that are never there has its advantages sometimes, and by that I mean guilt-tripping your rich parents has its advantages sometimes." You say as the two of you make your way into check-in.

You're eighteen and the room is in your parent's name, but your dad specified that you'd be the one checking the two of you in. The rooms are just under $300 a night, but you're not going to tell Brittany that. You're also not going to tell her that this is your entire graduation present and that you're probably not expecting anything for Christmas this year.

You'd love to explore the hotel a little, but it's incredibly late and Brittany looks likes she's falling asleep standing up so you get in the elevator and head up to your floor. Once the doors have slid shut Brittany rests her head on top of yours from where she's standing next to you as you slump against the back wall.

"Thank you for doing all of this." She whispers into your hair just before the tell-tale ding alerts you to the fact that you've reached your floor.

"I'm just glad you agreed to come with me." You say as you slide the keycard into the door and push it open, setting your bags down near the closet and looking around. You notice the one king-sized bed at the same time as Brittany, but she seems to be unfazed by it and simply pulls her sweatshirt over her head, crashing down on the mattress. You laugh and shimmy out of your jeans, unzipping your own duffel to grab the sleep shorts you'd set at the top and undoing your bra from underneath your tee shirt.

Settling down into bed next to Brittany for the first time since that crazy weekend three weeks ago feels amazing and you lift her legs up and pull the blankets over both of your bodies before resting your head on her already sleeping body. You may be hundreds of miles away from Lima but you've never felt so at home in your life.

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><p><strong>Author's Note Part 2:<strong> Get ready for a ballin' vacation! Santana has more tricks up her sleeve than a nice hotel! In my mind I'm picturing them at the Hyatt Regency, it's a really, really nice place. I'll try and update sooner than last time, sorry for the people who have been waiting like three weeks or two and a half or however long it's been.

I've just sort of begun to realize that there are over 120 reviews for this. Wow! Keep 'em coming and** if you've got anywhere in Chicago that you want Britt and San to hit up on their trip, leave an idea in the comments.** If you suggest them, I'll try and put them in. Thanks so much for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Hello! It's been quite a few months since I updated this! Excuse the hiatus, things got a bit busy when I wrapped up my spring term, and then summer happened. My summers are usually spent outside, away from computers and even civilization. So updates should start to roll in at a slightly normal place starting now (in theory). Thanks for everyone's nagging and begging for the update, it's what made me work so fast when I got home.

While the character's aren't mine, all the grammatical errors and mistakes are. Life is unfair.

Enjoy!

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><p>If you had to choose, waking up would easily win the category for your least favorite part of the day. You usually hate the feeling of the warm blanket of sleep being ripped away from you and forcing you to wake up and face reality instead of floating in a blissful state where subconscious is the only conscious you need.<p>

Another thing you can't stand is the utter lack of control that comes with sleep and wakefulness. Hard as anyone may try, once their body is determined to get up, there's no way they can fall back into their dreams.

But today, on this first morning of spring break, waking up didn't feel so bad at all. It's hard for you to have any bad vibes when the first thing you hear in the morning is the soft breathing coming from the perfect lips that are just above your ear.

Instead of the usual discomfort and overall stiffness that you've come to feel most mornings, your body is comfortable. Your limbs feel cushioned in a way that somehow isn't entirely associated with the cushy hotel bed you're lying on, and you suspect it's because of the fact that you spent the night curled up halfway on top of Brittany.

As far as you know, she's still asleep beneath you, which is somewhat ridiculous considering how much more rest she got on the drive from Lima, and her natural boundless energy.

You've always slept less than a normal person, and as much as you hate getting up in the morning, your body just gets going. It's weird how different Brittany is. Once she's out, she's out, and there's not much you or anyone else can do about it. Quinn told you a funny story about a time she fell asleep in the middle of a meal after a cheerleading competition. You don't remember the details but it was pleasantly entertaining and Brittany had been totally embarrassed when she walked in during Quinn's energetic re-telling.

Moments like that are what make you sort of jealous of Quinn. You're not envious of her popularity or her athletic ability (you've got plenty of the latter, you just hate team sports), but you really wish you'd gotten to know Brittany when you were younger. You know that's ridiculous because your relationship is just fine and you've hardly been acquainted a month, but you just don't have enough time.

Getting acceptance letters to college made you realize how close high school was to ending, how close everyone was to moving on. It makes you wonder what your relationship will be with the people you call your friends, say, a year from now. Will you still party with Puck? Will Mercedes and Sam still keep you grounded? Will you ever feel an urge to pick up the phone and call up Quinn Fabray for some girl talk?

The absurdity of the last thought makes the whole rest of them seem skewed and less likely, and you don't appreciate it.

Sure, most of the past four years could be regarded as the worst experiences of your life, but you've recently felt like knowing Brittany and the subsequent events that have followed have been the best thing to come out of your time at McKinley. It sort of scares you to think that it all might be over in a matter of months.

You've got absolutely no idea what her plans are for after high school. Quinn told you last week that they'd both gotten cheerleading offers from Ohio State but that was just in passing, and you don't know how seriously either of them are considering it.

You suppress a groan, not wanting to be thinking these stressful thoughts this early in the morning, and you manipulate yourself carefully off of Brittany and out of the bed. You feel a little bad about not waiting for her wake up, but once you're done sleeping, you're done. You'd rather not have your own restless tendencies keep her from getting her rest.

From what you can see of the view out of the window, the sky is slightly overcast and the weather app on your phone is predicting rain. You can hear a dull booming in the distance that certainly isn't construction, and you know that a thunderstorm might be on its way.

The city is much louder than what you're used to. You know it's nothing compared to bigger places like New York but the only other city you've really spent a night in is Columbus and that's much smaller than Chicago by any measure you know. If you were being honest with yourself, you know it isn't the ideal vacation destination, and the weather is notorious for being absolute shit, but getting out of Lima for a while is exactly what you feel like you need, and there's more to do in a large city than a small town.

You have a little stack of papers and pamphlets that you picked up at the travel section of the bookstore by April's Diner. There's not much better to do than rifle through them and figure out a plan for the day. There's an envelope with two things called CityPasses that your Papi insisted you get so that he could save money. Most of the attractions that they're good for are museum-related, but it's supposed to rain for the first two days of your trip so museums don't seem too bad. They're warm and dry, and your hair won't get ruined.

You've got a basic idea of things you're going to do no matter what, like going to Navy Pier and Millennium Park, but it all really comes down to how the weather fares and what Brittany feels like seeing. It's sort of sad how little time you've spent together recently, and you're hoping that by letting her choose most of what the two of you do, you'll learn what she really enjoys.

It's a strange concept, the dynamic you two have going on. You have never had this sort of relationship with someone that was more than just a friend, but you've never really been in a relationship before, if that's what you can call this. It's a little frustrating that you and Brittany still haven't labeled whatever it is you have going on. The two of you have only been on a single date and although it was awesome, nothing has been set in stone. You'd like to call her your girlfriend. In fact, it's one of you main goals for the week, to make it to that level, but there's no way you're going to push her.

Ten minutes later when Brittany wakes up, you've dragged your chair over to the side of the bed and propped your feet up. You feel a little bad when she drags her arm through the sheets to try and find you, a crestfallen look on her face when you aren't there. You would've loved to have stayed in bed with her, but something about getting a good night's sleep makes you antsy. You're glad you packed your running shoes, and a run is actually the first thing you put on today's tentative agenda.

When she finally gets around to opening her eyes, she blinks and smiles in that dazed way that makes you feel like you're sinking through a pile of feathers, falling quickly yet totally content.

"There you are" she says, as if she's greeting someone she hasn't seen in ages and it pleases her more than anyone can imagine.

"Sorry B," you say, apologize as you hop off the chair and crawl across the bed to where she's still lying, "I was super restless and I didn't want to wake my sleeping beauty." She giggles and grabs you so you're hovering right over her, your faces as close as possible.

"You're like, the worst knight in shining armor that ever lived" she jokes, bopping you on the nose. You play along, making a noise of protest as you trace the faint scar just near her hairline.

"I take offense to that, my lady. I do believe I saved you once already, you made quite the fetching damsel in distress."

She tries to hold in her laughter but can't contain it when you add on a ridiculous accent to your last statement, and you take the chance and silence her with a sweet peck on the lips, Disney-style.

"True love's kiss...check. Time to get up, B. We've got a big day and I need you to help me with the plans."

She cocks an eyebrow. "True love, huh?" she asks playfully, accepting the arm you offer to help pull her out of the bed.

"Something like that." You mumble awkwardly, smiling slyly as you realize what you actually said and how it didn't really differ from what you actually meant. She just grins and slaps you on the ass before heading over to the desk where you left the schedule for the day.

The two of you end up deciding to go along with what you planned, Brittany wholeheartedly agreeing that a little run would be nice after all of the hours spent cramped in your tiny piece of shit car the day before. Of course, her idea of a run is much different from yours. You subscribe to the "slow and steady" theory, and you can run almost as long as you want, provided your pace isn't too quick.

You had convinced yourself in the past that you were in shape, seeing as everything was tight and right and you didn't usually wheeze after running a flight of stairs, but Brittany proved this previous thought wrong. The two of you agree on a route that will take you along some less-popular city blocks to go to the lake and end back at the hotel, but her starting pace puts her ahead of you the whole time.

She tries for a while to slow down and get to a pace where she can run alongside you and have a nice chat, but it mostly consists of her rambling on and you gasping for breath and staring at her like she's crazy. She doesn't even seem tired. You take a mental note of her superhuman athletic ability, and slow down to a speed where you can run just behind her and check out her ass. After a quick three miles of hell interrupted only by a small break where you stopped, gasping for air, and stared at the massive lake as it stretched out in front of you, the two of you head back to the room to change.

After separate showers (you'd be lying if you weren't disappointed, but it's just not the time) you both dress for the already turning weather and go to get your car from the valet. You were pretty satisfied with your efforts when Brittany saw the plan and squealed excitedly. You couldn't think of anything better to do on a rainy day than hang out in a place that's filled with water- but indoors. From what you've read, the Shedd Aquarium is massive. As soon as Brittany grabbed the pamphlet from the desk where you'd set out all the touristy crap, she started planning your route.

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><p>Once you actually get in the car you're starting to be thankful towards your Papi for getting those passes, because she wants to see all the shows and special exhibits. The drive isn't long, but raindrops are already starting fall, covering the wide city streets with a slick coat of rain. You can see Brittany beginning to tense out of the corner of your eye. Her mom warned you that she really doesn't like being in the car in the rain, and you can piece enough together from the normal weather in London and her dad's accident to know that taking your hand off the wheel to try and comfort her will only make things worse.<p>

She starts to hum something and you laugh when you realize what it is, softly joining her with the ultra-lame yet totally classic lyrics.

"_Raindrops keep fallin' on my head, and just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed_" you sing, trying not to laugh, the mirth already evident in your voice.

"_Nothin' seems to fit_" Brittany adds in, laughing because she knows she's caught. You laugh too, but she keeps humming, louder this time.

"_Those raindrops keep fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'!_" you both shout, before you launch in to the next verse, trying to rap it.

"_So I just did me some talking to the sun (what). And I said I don't like the way he got things done (yeah, uh huh). Sleepin' on the job, stupid mothafucka!_"

"San!" she protests, noticing that you obviously changed the end of that part, but it worked anyway because she can't stop laughing.

"How do you even know all of the lyrics to that?" she asks, "I only know like, four lines and they're the chorus."

You blush now, and she can see it because her attention is finally off the road and on you.

"I had this nanny or whatever you can call it. She was more of the housekeeper but she stayed home with me after I got back from preschool and stuff, and we used to always sing that when it rained. She didn't really know any English, and I'm like a third-generation American so I didn't know Spanish at all before I took the class. But we both know all the lyrics to a bunch of old songs so I know tons of them. We used to just sing for fun."

You're not really down with sharing all the little details of your childhood, but that's something you're pretty comfortable talking about. You really do like to sing. Puck does too, and so do Sam and Mercedes. You always sing in the car on the way to parties. During junior year you and Puck used to get drunk and sit on his roof, singing country songs while he backed your vocals and played the guitar.

"That's really cute, Santana. And you sing like, really well when you aren't rapping and cursing and stuff."

"Thanks, B." you say, smiling so you know she can see it while you merge into the lane that will get you to the parking lot for the Shedd. Chicago traffic is not as incredibly terrible as you worried it would be, and people are holding a large enough interval to keep your road rage at bay. Puck calls you the "Ultimate Weekend Warrior", but you really do drive all the time. You don't like it much, but once any kid growing up in Lima gets their hands on that license, it's their ticket out of the "boonies" as Sam refers to them. You think that's hilarious because he's from a tiny hicktown in Tennessee.

As you pull into the parking lot, Brittany seems to have released some of her earlier tension about driving in the rain and is now seemingly buzzing with excitement. You don't have an aquarium in Lima. You're not even sure if there's an aquarium in the entirety of Allen County. The closest you've ever come to one is the large fish tank in the Dean's office at McKinley. And that's mostly just an algae-filled cesspool of disease with a couple fish struggling along in it.

You don't really understand what the appeal of a building full of fish is, but there seem to be huge amounts of cars in the lot. It's probably a good thing that most schools are on their spring break because this place seems like the perfect field-trip magnet. It's funny that one of the first places you could think of to take Brittany had a brochure that mainly depicts large elementary school groups or families with small children.

Then again, Brittany has a different idea of "fun" than most high school seniors you know.

It's not to say that she's not mature or a social outcast. Quinn has told enough embarrassing stories to let you know that Britt parties hard when she wants to, that's for sure. But she also just enjoys good, wholesome, fun activities that most kids your age would want to find a way to twist.

It's your spring break, and the two of you are going to the Shedd Aquarium to stare at fish all day, dammit. And the thing that's surprising you the most right now?

You're kind of getting excited.

It might be your strange curiosity about the life that dwells underwater, but you're pretty sure it's mostly because Brittany is already telling you some amazing facts about the place that you don't even remember reading from the pamphlet.

"I'm really excited for Wild Reef."

"Which one was that again, B?"

"It's the shark one, Santana! You read the pamphlet! Did you know it has three-quarters of a million gallons of water?"

"All that for a few sharks?" you ask, because this might be more walking than you originally intended to do.

"There are more than 25 of them!" Brittany shouts, startling an older couple walking with what seemed to be a small flock of grandchildren.

She clapped her hand over mouth, blushing at her sudden outburst.

You laugh, grabbing her by the hand and approaching the admissions desk.

"Well, we better get started if we're going to see all 25 of those sharks as well as the whole rest of this massive place." you say, showing the passes to the man at the desk and grabbing a map.

"Yeah, totally." Brittany replies, locking eyes with you and grinning before pulling you off in the direction of the Caribbean Reef.

* * *

><p>Two hours and about ten thousand animals later, you and Brittany are sitting in the café eating sandwiches and debating which was the ugliest creature you've seen so far.<p>

"Santana, it was totally the eel. That thing slithered right by my hand when I put it on the glass!"

"I know, Britt. You yelped loud enough that they probably heard you in the Oceanarium. And you jumped on me!"

You didn't actually mind the last part. She jumped into your arms and you stayed there, holding her until a big group of toddlers wanted to look in the tank. You almost growled at them. Nobody interrupts your Brittany time.

"Anyway, I still maintain that the nastiest thing here is that geoduck. Those things are straight up creepy. I don't know why they'd allow them in a kid-friendly museum."

At this, Brittany busts out into another fit of giggles, similar to the one she'd had when you first saw the snail-like creature.

"San, you just don't like them 'cause they look like-" she trails off, unable to speak through her laughter.

"Yeah yeah, I just don't like them because they look like a giant dick with a shell jammed onto it. Let's all laugh because the lesbian is traumatized." you counter dryly, trying your best not to bust a smile. It is kind of ironic.

Brittany gets a devilish glint in her eyes.

"I actually think they're kind of cute." she deadpans; her face stays completely blank before she cracks a smile at the gagging noises you're making.

"Keep taking like that and I might never kiss you again ever. Seriously."

Those things are really nasty, and they creeped you out a lot. Not even just because of what they looked like. Even their movements were unsettling. Brittany puts on an expression of mock horror at your last statement and immediately launches into a pout.

Ugh.

You can't resist those lips when she's biting the lower one, looking like her world is shattered. Even if you know she's faking it. You stand up slightly in your seat so you can lean across the table and reach her lips with your own. Screw kid-friendly environments.

"Hey San, would you still kiss me if my tongue was a geoduck?"

"B! Gross!"

"Just a thought. Wow, I didn't know tan people could turn green."

"Forget it, Brittany. Let's just go to the Wild Reef."

* * *

><p>Despite your earlier fears about all the walking, the Wild Reef turns out to be awesome. The place isn't that big, but that's probably because it's surrounded entirely by fish tanks. They're everywhere. The walls, even the ceiling has fish of varying sizes and the occasional staff member in a diving suit swimming overhead.<p>

It might be the single coolest building you've ever been in, and although the brightly colored fish and rooms build like coral reefs are cool, you're totally fascinated by Brittany. You can't help but think that spring break in Chicago would never be like this if you were anyone else. You could be dropping hundreds of dollars right now on Michigan Avenue but instead, you're in a dimly lit room watching the girl of your dreams stare at hundreds of brightly colored tropical fish and the grey imposing figures of sharks.

All day long, her excitement has seemingly captivated everyone in the room, yourself especially. She creates a buzz that has had everyone you've encountered interested in the exhibits. At the Caribbean Reef, the huge circular tank that was the first thing you saw on your way in, she got a little boy who was crying to smile, telling him about the clownfish and how it was probably related to Nemo.

It's the little things that Brittany does that make you appreciate her the most.

You never imagined yourself being with someone before you got out of high school, and even on the few occasions that you fantasized, you never thought it would end up being a person that made you so happy. Brittany is incredible, and despite how much of a misfit pair the two of you are, you enjoy yourself the most when you're with her.

You think back to this morning and your worries about the future, but they feel irrelevant now. There are at least three months until either of you is going anywhere and you're going to enjoy your time as much as possible. You've spent more than three and a half years being semi-miserable and relatively reserved, but you want to have a hell of a good time with what you have left. And hopefully Brittany will be there the whole way.

She grabs your wrist now, sliding her hand down to entwine her fingers in yours and leaning into you.

"You look tired," she whispers to you like it's a secret that nobody else in the crowded exhibit can know.

You are tired. All that driving last night really took something out of you. Your normal energy level is usually pretty high, and standing a lot at training has prepared you for museums, but you're beat. The aquarium has been incredible but you really could use a nice nap back at the hotel.

"I'm a little worn out, Britt. But if you want to keep looking I'll be good. This place did turn out to be pretty cool."

She smiles at that. "It's actually freakin' awesome, Santana. But I'm ready to go if you are." She whispers "freakin'" like it's the worst swear word she's ever said. You both laugh.

You're ready, and that's it.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand."

"Yes, let's." she replies in a posh accent, linking your arms and marching you towards the hallway that leads to the parking exit.

She skips the whole way and you refuse to join until you're out of the building, spending most of the trip back to the car being dragged behind the tall goofy blonde.

* * *

><p>You get back to the hotel and drop the car at the valet, letting out a yawn you've been suppressing the whole ride. You didn't want Brittany to have to worry about you driving drowsy.<p>

While you're about ready to pass out, she's the opposite of how she was last night. Instead of being passed out in the backseat, she took your iPhone out and played temple run, narrating her little guy's experience the whole drive back.

It was hilarious, especially since she switched accents the whole time, but eventually settled on a Morgan Freeman impersonation that had you slapping the steering wheel with laughter. You're pretty sure that Sam, the king of impressions that he is, would be perfectly horrified by her attempts, but you loved it.

When you get up to the room, it's like the bed is calling to you. You're in a fog of exhaustion but Brittany looks like she has enough energy to run a marathon. You crash face down onto the bed. It's really comfortable.

"I think I might go explore the hotel while you take a nap, or maybe go watch ESPN in that sports bar downstairs. I'm setting you an alarm for six." Sh sits down next to you and rubs your back, talking with her face close to your ear. Her voice is soothing. You think this might be your favorite way she talks to you, the low voice and warm breath on your neck.

Although you pretty much like hearing whatever she has to say, however and whenever she says it.

"Sounds good. It's cute that you like sports." you grumble into the mattress.

"Everything I do is cute" she replies, kissing the shell of your ear and standing up after giving you one final pat on the ass.

She's got you there.

"Later, sleepyhead. Sweat dreams."

After you hear her place your phone by your head and the door shuts, you slip into a nice sleep.

* * *

><p>When you wake up almost two hours later, you're confused as to why your phone is blasting 50 Cent. Then you realize that the alarm Brittany set has been going off for over a minute.<p>

After finally silencing "Get Up" (despite being groggy, you appreciate Brittany's humour), you haul your ass out of bed. Since it's six pm, you've got about an hour and a half until you have to be at the restaurant for the reservations you made while Brittany called her mom at the museum. You like being sneaky.

A glance in the mirror tells you that your bedhead is disgusting and out of hand, and you look like an overall hot mess. A shower is certainly in order before you go find Brittany.

Fifteen minutes later you're toweling off your hair as your phone buzzes from your bed. It's a text from Brittany telling you she's watching a soccer match in the lobby with Rico. You're not sure who Rico is but you think it's funny that she can make acquaintances that fast. You don't want to interrupt her fun, but you're sure she'll probably want to shower before dinner and you'd feel like a total ass if she didn't get a chance to. So, you head down to the lobby to find her.

When you do, she's sitting on a tan couch in an area of that fancy lobby that has two TV's. The channel is turned to what is obviously Telemundo's soccer program, and the volume is up higher than you'd expect a hotel to allow. The mystery of Rico's identity is solved when you notice the bellhop sitting right next to her on the couch with his hat clutched in his hands.

You glance at the bar at the top of the screen, and it shows that the game is very nearly over. You have no idea what the abbreviations for the two teams stand for, and you doubt Brittany does either, but that doesn't mean she's not just as into it as Rico is. The young man is muttering rapidly under his breath in Spanish and all of the sudden he stands up, cheering loudly while Brittany collapses into the back of the couch, sighing with defeat.

The game looks like it's finished, signaling your time to cut in.

"Hey, Britt" you call, "sorry to interrupt your little soccerfest but we have reservations in an hour, and we should probably get ready."

She turns around, and the frown she had from her team losing turns into a smile when she sees you. You like that. A lot.

"Hey Santana!" she shouts, hopping off the couch and running over to hug you, embracing you tightly before pulling back only to press a chaste kiss to your lips. You both smile, happy to see each other even though it's only been a few hours.

Behind her, Rico the bellhop is blushing furiously and attempting to avoid eye contact by staring at the ground and stuffing his little hat back onto his head. Brittany follows your gaze to where he stands.

"Oh! Santana, this is Rico. He's on his break. He's a pretty cool dude. Rico, this is Santana, the girl I was telling you about."

"Pleasure to meet you, Brittany's lady friend." Rico says, trying to play it cool despite the fact that he's still blushing. This guy already reminds you of Puck.

"Nice to meet you, Rico. I hope Brittany only said good things" you reply, secretly trying to find out what they talked about. He doesn't seem creepy but you want to assert yourself. He was sitting awfully close to her on that couch.

"Trust me, sis, you are just as hot as she said you were. And you seem just as cool."

You shoot a glance over to Brittany, biting your lip to try and suppress the grin that's forming. It's her turn to blush and stare at the ground and it's probably the cutest behavior you've ever witnessed.

"Okay, Rico" you say, wrapping your arm around Brittany's waist and giving her a little squeeze, "as lovely as this has been, Britts and I have reservations at seven thirty so we better head on up."

He nods understandingly. "Catch ya on the flip."

You both smile and wave, heading back towards the elevators.

Once inside, you lean into Brittany's ear and whisper; "I leave you alone for two hours and you've already got a guy following you around like a lost puppy. This is doing nothing to help my jealous rage."

She laughs out loud as the doors slide shut, smacking you lightly on the shoulder. You both spend the rest of the ride up grinning and probably freaking out the other guests who get on before you arrive at your floor.

When you're back in the room, you start sorting through your bag for your outfit while Brittany just grabs hers and takes it into the bathroom with her while she showers. You can hear her singing to herself, it's a soft tune that you don't recognize, but you can tell it's one she's sung before. You stand still, listening for an entire five minutes until you realize that you've stopped moving and shake yourself out of your trance, zipping your skirt up and adjusting the shirt that's tucked into it.

The room is filled with a fresh smell that you can only classify as Brittany when the bathroom door opens and she walks out. Her hair swept up into a formal bun with tiny little ringlets hanging loosely to frame her face. She's wearing a black sleeveless cocktail dress with a silvery belt wrapped around her waist. She looks amazing and you've never seen her dressed up this nicely before.

You spot the pair of strappy high heels she has in her right hand, and you know that even with your peektoes you're going to look tiny compared to her. You don't even mind, Brittany's height is one of your favorite physical aspects she has. You feel so safe with her, although if people found that out you'd deny it. You've still got to keep up your rep as a badass.

"You look amazing, Britt" you say as she walks across the room towards you "like, wow."

"Well, you look totally beautiful, Santana." She brushes the pad of her thumb across the shoulder of your silk top before bringing her hand up to your chin. She brings your faces together, leaning down slightly to kiss you slowly. It's not particularly strong, but you feel like your ears are buzzing when she draws back.

It's one of those moments between the two of you where you feel isolated, like the otherwise empty room isn't even there. You're so glad that the two over you have become more affectionate over the past couple of days, but you're comfortable with taking it as slow as Brittany wants.

"Where are we going?" she asks as she grabs her small clutch from the bedside table, checking her phone.

"It's a surprise, I hope you don't mind." You know for a fact that she loves surprises, they seem to be a theme of this trip so far. Surprising Brittany is fun because it brings her so much joy, which leaves you smiling until your face hurts.

"Well, if you're ready we could go, then. I can't wait to find out what you have planned!"

That sounds like a plan to you, so you grab your own clutch and head for the door, clasping her right hand to your left as you lead the way.

* * *

><p>You walk with Brittany down the Avenue, confident in your ability to navigate the large city streets. The area that the hotel is in is fully of fancy restaurants. You chose one steakhouse in particular because you read that they aren't too pretentious or ridiculous with their ingredients. The food is still supposed to be amazing, but it will be more suited to Brittany's tastes.<p>

It's not to say that she isn't refined or mature, you just know for a fact that she appreciates food that is really simple, but really good. She'd rather have the Mac n' Cheese special at April's than eat fancy vegetables at some Italian restaurant.

She looks excited when you go in and are led to a small table near a dim area, lit mostly by a roaring fireplace. It's not cold out, but the warmth is nice and the flames set the atmosphere of the place.

You make light conversation, and when the waiter asks what the two of you would like to drink, Brittany orders for the both of you, getting you a raspberry iced tea and pink lemonade for herself. It turns out to be exactly what you wanted and she winks at you when you take a long sip. You order a skirt steak and she gets a relatively simple dish with chicken and pasta, and the two of you make light conversation through the whole meal.

It's a simple and lovely way to end a long day, and the food is amazing. The two of you both have trouble eating, too distracted by the game of footsie you're playing under the table, or your clasped hands. You never realized how convenient it is that you're a lefty. Both of you can eat and hold hands at the same time.

After you pay, Brittany grabs your hand and you walk around the neighborhood, enjoying the sights and sounds. The weather is mild after the morning's storm, and the city seems to have found a balance between bustle and peacefulness. You're more content than you've been in a long, long time.

When you get back to the hotel, Rico gives you a nod from where he stands duty at the front desk. Brittany giggles and sweeps you away into the elevator. You've never been swept away before, but you think you could get used to it.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, when you're standing at the mirror in the room, sliding your dress off to get ready for bed you feel her strong, warm arms wrap around your bare waist.<p>

"Hey" you squeak, not sure what she's thinking.

"Hey," she says, her voice smooth.

"What's up?" you ask, trying to be nonchalant as she stands close behind you in a similar state of undress.

"Well," she says, a hint of mischief in her voice, "you treated me so well tonight, I thought I would do a little something for you. Only if you'd like that of course."

"Oh," you say, losing all of your composure at once, "yeah, I'd like that."

She laughs, pulling you towards the bed. You don't object.

Yeah. You'd definitely like that.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ohhh, Cliffhanger. **

**Shoot me a review or favorite this thing if you care. I never realized how many follows it had until I looked yesterday. So to the 300+ people who got an email telling them to read this, thanks!**

**If anyone has anymore ideas for Chicago things I'm open to hearing them, though I've been in the city enough recently to get ideas flowing.**

**Until Next Time!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: This has not been updated in an incredibly long time. **  
><strong>Hopefully that trend will break now.<strong>  
><strong>Enjoy.<strong>

* * *

><p>It's still dark in the room when you open your eyes.<p>

The first thought that goes through your head involves questioning what time it is, night, morning, whatever. That thought is quickly cut short when you remember exactly where you are, who you're with, and how you're dressed.

Well, "dressed" might not be the appropriate word in this situation. The word you're looking for involves not wearing anything at all, just the sheets you are wrapped in and the warm arms that circle around your waist, the heat of another body pressed against your back.

Undressed. That's the word.

Tonight, last night, whenever it was, was a special experience. You're pretty sure you've never felt so much intense and positive emotion in your life. All you could think at first was, _why wasn't my first time like this, why can't I just hit a button and redo it all?_

Eventually, those thoughts of regret, longing, whatever they were, were replaced by thoughts of pleasure, of love, and of awe every time you met Brittany's eyes.

Pretty soon you weren't thinking anything at all.

Now, you're thinking that you want to feel comfortable right now. You want to be okay with how you're lying here, completely bare, with just a sheet and Brittany's arm to cover you, and how when the sun comes up you'll wake up and smile and turn to her.

But you don't feel comfortable with that. Not now, perhaps soon, but not yet. Your cold, hard heart has not been completely thawed, and it's just a little too much to handle.

For now, you settle with slipping quietly out from under the arm she has unconsciously splayed across you, sliding the sheets off of you as you tiptoe over to the mess your pile of stuff has already become.

The clothes you'd laid out earlier are still where they were, and you slip on the soft boxers and large cotton t-shirt before turning back to the bed where Brittany sleeps. The heavy curtains in your swanky hotel room are not drawn completely, and a little bit of city light is peeking in. It may not be as beautiful as the moonlight you know you'd see back in Lima, but right now the way it plays across Brittany's face is the next best thing.

You're stuck standing there, frozen, watching her sleep. You feel creepy again, this is the second time in less than twenty-four hours that you've done this. You don't think you can help yourself anymore.

The past few years, all you could do was hope for moments like these. You spent hours of your life daydreaming about having a girl like her, having someone to text goodnight, or take on dates with extravagant finales, or even just hold the door for. You can't help being a sucker for chivalry and a bit of a romantic, even if Puck would tease you endlessly if he found out.

You reminisce about the old days of pining for romance a little longer, before realizing that you don't need to, because the ultimate, genuine, real-deal is currently lying across two-thirds of your massive hotel bed. Her body language is asking you to cuddle, even though she's off in dreamland.

You're not one to deny a cuddle-request. Especially not when it's Brittany.

Clearing your head of all the thoughts and worries and epiphanies that seem to constantly fill it as of late, you slip back underneath the sheets and press yourself back into Brittany's warm, slumbering figure.

You have all day tomorrow to fill your head up with thoughts. Now you're just going back to bed with your girl.

...

The next time you wake up, it's definitely morning. Your eyes aren't actually open, but you can sense the light streaming into the room. There's a big difference between this morning, the last time you woke up, and yesterday morning.

That difference comes in the form of Brittany, who, after you crack open one eyelid, is discovered to be hovering over you on all fours and smiling like it's already the best day of her life. She also appears to have put on clothes, because her chest is currently about six inches away from your face and you have yet to experience heart failure.

"Good morning", she whispers, like it's a secret just for your ears.

"Unph" is your oh-so-sexy grunt of a reply. You really know how to kill a moment.

She rolls off of you, laughing as she informs you that it's already eleven in the morning and she ordered chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast about ten minutes ago.

Yup, definitely a keeper.

Brittany took the liberty off pulling the covers off of you already so all you have to do is roll sideways and onto your feet, and you're out of bed.

You take stock of the room, noticing that the clothes that were on the floor last night are put away, or at least shoved into the bags they came out of, and that Brittany has covered up with a large t-shirt that says "World's Best Grandma".

You also notice that the sky outside the window is not completely gray, as the weather forecast would suggest, and that today might just be the perfect day to go shopping.

The pancakes arrive and the two of you feast. You're not sure if it's the previous night's activities or just normal morning hunger, but you ate more than you can remember eating for breakfast in a long time.

After you've finished eating, the two of you shower, separately of course. This time you think of the night before as you wash your body clean, freeing yourself from the sweaty feeling that you just couldn't get rid of.

* * *

><p>By the time the two of you hit Michigan Avenue to do all the classic Chicago shopping, the sun is shining bright in the cloud-ridden sky, though no thunderheads are looming. Brittany drags you to every store that appeals to her.<p>

By the time you've just made it to Water Tower Place, your feet are already hurting and you've got more brightly colored bags than you can count. Sure, a good number of them contain clothes for yourself, but Brittany has a thirst for fashion and she is absolutely ecstatic. Of course, she has managed to find all of the best deals while you've bought fewer items but paid much, much more.

It turns out that you spend the most time on the food level of Water Tower. You're all shopped out and Brittany can tell, she lets you know that she's content to just sit there and people watch, but she spends most of the time watching you.

She sips her iced-tea and smiles coyly at you from across the small plastic mall table, her fingers tapping a frenzied nonsense beat across the tops of your knuckles. It's about four in the afternoon on a Sunday and the place is bustling with people.

"Wanna get out of here?" she asks, looking around at the nearly-filled tables.

You do. You feel rested and you want to go somewhere quiet where you can just be with Brittany, and not so many loud foreigners or screaming children.

The wind has picked up when you walk outside, and you head back to Michigan Avenue, just walking and enjoying each other's presence. You walk for a long time, and the two of you make it all the way to the riverwalk on Lower Wacker Drive.

You stand against the ornate stone railing on the edge of the river and watch cars go over the nearby bridge as people bustle about on the sidewalks. The buildings are catching the late-afternoon (or early evening) light and the faded yellow reflections cast a magical air about the city, windows flashing as you turn your head to survey the view.

Brittany seems captivated by a group of pigeons pecking about on a lower level nearer to the water, and you're completely lost in your own thoughts.

By next Monday, you will be back in school at McKinley, back to worrying about making those last-minute college decisions (you know you've waited too long, but your mother has always said that you were stubborn and careful), back to taping ankles and spending mindless hours in the golf cart with Emma as she routinely sanitizes.

For now, you're just glad to be standing in this never-ending maze of people and bustle and emotions, where you can just turn your head and see something completely new.

Next to you, Brittany turns her head from the fluttering gray birds and looks back at you, smiling happily as the same light that reflects off the windows catches her eyes and causes them to shine bright blue. A breeze is blowing and a water-taxi chugs by in the river next to you.

"I think, Santana..." she begins, brushing a stray strand of hair from your eyes that you had failed to notice, "...I think that this city is sort of like us, in a way. Everything may seem random and sudden and loud, but if you take a chance to step back and really, really look, you'll see just how perfectly it all fits together, how perfectly we fit together."

Her words are powerful to you, bringing out emotions you didn't know you had. Sure, that could have been a line right out of a cheesy romantic movie, but it wasn't.

Times like these with Brittany are the ones you truly appreciate, times when you can listen to her speak, and look into her eyes, and feel tears in the corners of yours, those are the times that you don't want to end.

You wrap your arms around her completely on instinct, like it's your job.

Hugging her close, your head on her shoulder, you feel invincible.

"That was one of the most perfect things I've ever heard", you say, and it's the honest truth.

You can feel her smile, and she squeezes you tighter.

"I've been thinking about that all day," she confesses, "when I woke up before you, I sat and looked out the window for a long time. I watched the cars and people go by, and the stores open- only because it's Sunday and they open late -and I just couldn't help but feel it. It took me until just now on this bridge to really know what to say."

She giggles now, and it shakes both of your bodies, and pretty soon you both laugh and laugh, and then you're kissing and it just feels right, and everything is perfect.

You catch a cab back to the hotel and change into comfy clothes. Despite it being Sunday, and just the beginning of the break, you both are too tired to do anything so you decide to knock out a little homework.

Brittany calls Quinn to say hi and catch up, and you text Puck while sitting cross-legged on the bed with your multi-variable calculus book in your lap. Sometimes being smart seems like a curse and you're paying much more attention to the phone than you are to the math.

As you and Puck talk about the new sound-system he's saving up for, Brittany giggles loudly, probably laughing at some story Quinn is telling about a misadventure with Rachel this weekend. Sure, you've see the girl at plenty of parties, but when she's with the loud little diva they always seem to do the weirdest shit.

Brittany turns her head towards you to demand that you go to a zoo tomorrow, and you groan because it's probably going to rain but you'll probably end up going anyway.

You grab your phone and begin to look up a plan, smiling to yourself as the girl across the room dances and laughs and keeps up a conversation. It's the perfect night in and you hope there are many more to come upon your return to Lima.

* * *

><p>The next morning you are both energized from the relaxing evening before, and Brittany dances along the street as you head for the train. It's not raining quite yet, but the clouds are brewing and Brittany has busted out the bright yellow umbrella.<p>

Naturally, you hate the rain. It makes your hair frizzy and strikes a permanent frown across your face. Brittany told you earlier that your expression looked angrier than the clouds overhead and you just scowled, refusing to laugh as the valet man outside of the hotel giggled quietly.

The train ride is short and you get off and walk to the zoo. You feel like a pro for being able to find Lincoln Park zoo, nestled away in a quiet area on what you guess is the "North Side", with lots of smaller buildings and restaurants around.

The zoo is free, which is nice, and it is just starting to open some of the outdoor exhibits with the weather growing nicer, although the impending rain means that some of the animals have ventured into hiding places.

You walk around the stone paths with Brittany, and the two of you make a sort of game as the drops begin to lightly fall, spotting animals hidden away under rock shelters and in dry spots on ledges in each of the areas.

The hood of your red raincoat is securely on your head, and Brittany finds humor in pulling the tightening cord all the way shut so that you look ridiculous and will certainly end up with a kink in your hair.

If the rain makes you look like a damned idiot, it only makes Brittany look better. The droplets cling to her golden waves as she spins around, twirling the folded umbrella that she has not bothered to open. She is beautiful, and she is flourishing, and she is perfect.

Later, after the two of you have eaten lunch, you find yourself in the long hall that houses the big cats. Their snarls and growls are like frustrated grumbles as Brittany stands close to the cages, turning around to face you where you've kept your distance, informing you of the fact that these big babies have nothing on her own fat cat when it comes to being scary.

The rain is falling heavily when you exit the long, dimly-lit building, but your coats have dried and Brittany opens the umbrella, linking first your pinkies and later your arms, and pulling you close to keep the two of you dry as you walk back to the train.

She cares for you so much in that moment, and you thank her. She tells you that she intends to show you how much she really cares when you arrive back at the hotel, and that has you blushing as the two of you part for a moment to pass through the automated gates at the station.

* * *

><p>On Tuesday when you decide to go shopping again, this time at the trendier stores and huge vintage shops in an area Quinn told you to head to, you feel the most comfortable you've felt in days. It's not just because this part of the city is called Boystown and plays host to Chicago's Pride Parade every June, but it's because you feel like you and Brittany have really escalated as a couple.<p>

As you stroll up and down the concrete sidewalk, ducking into the shops that are hidden away in brick-paved alleys and racing up the stairs to find what each new floor of each new place has to offer, you feel safe, like this is a person you could do anything with.

You eat lunch at a place with a bright awning and fun cartoon maps of the area that are laminated and used instead of table-cloths. It's a nice place that you can see people coming to regularly, and you and Brittany agree that it reminds you a little of April's place back at home.

It's there that Brittany brings up the subject you've hoped to avoid since the beginning of the trip.

"Sooo-ooo" she says, dragging out the word and pursing her lips, "there was something I've been meaning to talk about ever since you kidnapped me on Friday."

"What's up?" you ask, thinking it's probably harmless or just a little question or story from Brittany's week. Obviously something important but certainly not enormous news.

She smiles, grinning like she has a secret that's just bursting to spill from her lips, her cat-like eyes slanting and sparkling with excitement.

"Coach told us that there were going to be scouts coming to our games for the next couple of weeks after break. They were there during winter intramurals and at try-outs, but this is the final stretch, the big recruitment month in Ohio. We don't have a game until next Friday but once break is over there will probably be two-a-days until Wednesday to get everyone back. I'm so excited, it's like with you here and this to look forward to, everything is finally falling into place!"

You can feel a pit begin to hollow itself out inside your stomach. Brittany is right about things falling into place here in Chicago, and the recruitment is amazing, but the chance of you and her getting accepted to a school in even the same part of the country is in no way 100%. It just fills your head with all the worries and anxiety you've be trying to suppress about school and friends and the people you love becoming separated.

You've seen what can happen to a relationship when people get separated, even as just friends. Hell, Rachel spent four days of the past week sulking when she learned that Quinn had accepted a scholarship to play lacrosse at Northwestern while the diva herself chose to pursue the arts at some east-coast school with an extra-long abbreviated name that you've since forgotten (it wasn't really important).

You don't want to have to find yourself in the same situation, wanting to be furious at someone you care about for choosing to follow their dreams and go to a school that will totally set them up to play their sport (Rachel told you and Brittany that she couldn't be upset with Quinn- Northwestern was the best school in the country for girl's lacrosse and she had to support her friend for following her own dream, even if they couldn't both end up on the East Coast).

You grab Brittany's hand, looking into her eyes and smiling, with a mostly-genuine look of excitement on your face.

"That's amazing, B! What schools will be there?"

She begins to rattle off a list of schools her coach said would maybe be there, and then one of schools that would definitely be watching them. The names all seemed to blur together except for one- UCLA.

You felt like you were in one of those cheesy television shows where the final clue is given and the detective has a sudden vision of the evidence he needs- your mind seems to zoom back to the one of the letters in a stack on your desk, the one with a single bright-blue post-it attached, the one that said "University of California Los Angeles".

It hits you then. If Brittany could somehow manage to stick out to just the UCLA scout, to look perfect in his or her eyes, then maybe, just maybe, you would have a chance of going to school together. When your father saw the letter in the mail, he made sure to put a post-it on to make sure you knew that this was a school he really approved of.

In true Lopez spirit, he jokingly told you that he and your Mami would kick your ass if you didn't go there, but you honestly didn't need any convincing. The warm weather and the thought of an exciting life on the other side of the country, while kicking off your own medical career was already enough persuasion.

"Have you thought about where you want to go?" you dare to ask, nervous about what her response might be.

She pretends to ponder it for a little while, popping a french-fry into her mouth and furrowing her eyebrows in mock-concentration.

"I'm pretty sure I want to go to any school that will have me that isn't in the Midwest. I mean, it would be sweet to get out of here, right? And I'm not a super-genius who will probably rule the world like you are, San, so when the letters or emails or phonecalls or whatever it is they do, when they happen, I'll pick what I like best and go from there. And how super-awesome would it be if we got to go to school in like, the same place? I'll definitely think about that when the time comes."

Her honest answer only eases your nerves a little bit. You nod your head in agreement that it would be awesome, and excuse yourself to the restroom after squeezing her hand.

Once you're alone, hands on either side of the sink and staring at yourself in the mirror, you feel your entire body shudder.

_Come on, Lopez, toughen up. You can't let yourself get caught up in something like this. You've never worried about the details before and you can't start now._

Sometimes, you just want to punch your inner monologue in the face. It's something you've always had and while sometimes you enjoy the little pep-talks you get from yourself, they haven't happened in a couple of days and it's been nice to just relax. You usually only need to do this when you're really stressed or being an idiot.

Now is probably one of those times. You feel like a total self-centered asshole for getting like this every time you think about school and the future, especially on vacation and in the middle of a conversation that Brittany wanted to have.

Times like these make you want to be back home in Lima, sitting on Puck's roof and smoking a cigar stolen out of the case that sits untouched in your Papi's office.

You try to shake your head out of the dark clouds that form in your mind, heading back to Brittany with a soft smile on your face and a wink when you sit down.

The two of you take your time after lunch, sending pictures of awesome stuff to Quinn to make her jealous, even if this area will only be about 40 minutes away from her for the next 4 years, or so she's told you, bragging until you want to slap the smug little grin off of her face.

You always restrain yourself, though.

From what you've heard, Quinn always was a genius slapper.

Later, the two of you get manicures at one of the little shops that line the street. The ladies behind the counter don't even frown as you and Brittany present your...well, rather short nails after coming in holding hands.

It's just that kind of neighborhood.

Even in the early evening, the ever-changing Chicago weather is still nice, and the two of you decide to walk for a while, opting to get on the train at a station a mile or so South. You grab Starbucks at a shop hidden in a nearby grocery store before jogging up the steps to the platform. Brittany orders you something sweet and full of caramel and it's almost as if she knows you like the back of her hand.

Later that night as you are curled into each other in bed, close to drifting off, she tells you not to focus on the future, and to just enjoy the present.

Your eyes widen as you realize she saw your stress right through the façade you tried to put up. You curl into her and decide to stop hiding your emotions from people, or maybe to just start with her.

It's because she deserves it. She deserves to know when you're feeling right or wrong, happy or sad, and there isn't anybody else you'd rather share your feelings with, because feelings?

They suddenly seem to make everything better.

* * *

><p><strong>Feel free to drop a review and tell me how you're feeling about this story.<strong>

**x**


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